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LAMPLIGHTER 

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BOSTON: 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. 
SCfje I3rcSS, Camtirfose. 

1882. 



Copyright, 1854, 

By JOHN P. JEWETT & COMPANY. 
Copyright, 1882, 

By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY. 


All rights reserved. 



THE LAMPLIGHTER 


CHAPTER I. 

Good God ! to think upon a child 
That has no childish days, 

No careless play, no frolics wild, 

No words of prayer and praise! 

Landon. 

It was growing dark in the city. Out in the open country if 
would be light for half an hour or more ; but within the close 
streets, where my story leads me, it was already dusk. Upon the 
wooden door-step of a low-roofed, dark, and unwholesome-looking 
house, sat a little girl, who was gazing up the street with much 
earnestness. The house-door, which was open behind her, was 
close to the sidewalk ; and the step on which she sat was so low 
that her little unshod feet rested on the cold bricks. It was a 
chilly evening in November, and a light fall of snow, which had made 
everything look bright and clean in the pleasant, open squares, 
near which the fine houses of the city were built, had only served 
to render the narrow streets and dark lanes dirtier and more cheer- 
less than ever ; for, mixed with the mud and filth which abound 
in those neighborhoods where the poor are crowded together, the 
beautiful snow had lost all its purity. 

A great many people were passing to and fro, bent on their 
various errands of duty or of pleasure ; but no one noticed the 
little girl, for there was no one in the world who cared for her. 
She was scantily clad, in garments of the poorest description. 
Her hair was long and very thick ; uncombed and unbecoming, 
if anything could be said to be unbecoming to a set of features 
1 * 




6 THE LAMPLIGHTER. 

which, to a casual observer, had not a single attraction, — being 
thin and ^iarp, while her complexion was sallow, and her whole 
appears ce unhealthy. 

She L_d, to he sure, fine, dark eyes; but so unnaturally large 
did they seem, in contrast to her thin, puny face, that they only 
increased the peculiarity of it, without enhancing its beauty 
Had any one felt any interest in her (which nobody did), had 
she had a mother (which, alas! she had not), those friendly 
and partial eyes would, perhaps, have found something in her 
to praise. As it was, however, the poor little thing was told, a 
dozen times a day, that she was the worst-looking child in the 
world, and, what was more, the worst-behaved. No one loved 
her, and she loved no one ; no one treated her kindly ; no one 
tried to make her happy, or cared whether she were so. She 
was but eight years old, and all alone in the world. 

There was one thing, and one only, which she found pirasure 
in. She loved to watch for the coming of the old man who lit 
the street-lamp in front of th& house where she lived; to see the 
bright torch he carried flicker in the wind ; and then, when he 
ran up his ladder, lit the lamp so quickly and easily, and made 
the whole place seem cheerful, one gleam of joy was shed on a 
little desolate heart, to which gladness was a stranger; and, 
though he had never seemed to see, and certainly had never 
spoken to her, she almost felt, as she watched for the old lamp- 
lighter, as if he were a friend. 

“Gerty,” exclaimed a harsh voice within, “have you been for 
the milk ? ” 

The child made no answer, but, gliding off the door-step, ran 
quickly round the corner of the house, and hid a little out of sight. 

“What’s become of that child?” said the woman from whom 
the voice proceeded, and who- now showed herself at the door. 

A boy who was passing, and had seen Gerty run, — a boy who 
had caught the tone of the whole neighborhood, and looked upon 
her as a sort of imp or spirit of evil, — laughed aloud, pointed 
to the corner which concealed her, and, walking off with his head 
over his # shoulder, to see what would happen next, exclaimed to 
himself as he went, ‘ She ’ll catch it ! Nan Grant ’ll fix her 1 ” 



THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


7 


fn a moment more, Gerty was dragged from her hiding-place, 
and, with one blow for her ugliness and another for^her impu* 
dence (for she was making up faces at Nan Grant wifc$^Jl her 
might), she was despatched down a neighboring alley wit’, a kettle 
for the milk. 

She ran fast, for she feared the lamplighter would come and 
go in her absence, and was rejoiced, on her return, to catch 
sight of him, as she drew near the house, just going up his lad- 
der. She stationed herself at the foot of it, and was so engaged 
in watching the bright flame, that she did not observe when the 
man began to descend ; and, as she was directly in his way, he 
hit against her, as he sprang to the ground, and she fell upon the 
pavement. “ Hollo, my little one ! ” exclaimed he, “ how’s this ? ” 
as he stooped to lift her up. 

She was upon her feet in an instant ; for she was used to hard 
knocks, and did not much mind a few bruises. But the milk ! - — 
it was all spilt. 

“Well, now, I declare!” said the man, “that’s too bad! — * 
what’ll mammy say ? ” and, for the first time looking full in 
Gerty's face, he here interrupted himself with, “ My ! what an 
odd-faced child ! — looks like a witch ! ” Then, seeing that she 
looked apprehensively at the spilt milk, and gave a sudden glance 
up at the house, he added, kindly, “ She wont be hard on such 
a mite of a thing as you are; will she? Cheer up, my ducky! 
never mind if she does scold you a little. I ’ll bring you some- 
thiag to-morrow, that I think you ’ll like, maybe ; you ’re such 
a lonesome sort of a looking thing. And, mind, if the old 
woman makes a row, tell her I did it. But did n’t I hurt you ? 
What was you doing with my ladder? ” 

“ I was seeing you light the lamp,” said Gerty, “ and I an’t 
hurt a bit; but I wish I had n’t spilt the milk.” 

At this moment Nan Grant came to the door, saw what had 
happened, and commenced pulling the child into the house, amidst 
blows, threats, and profane and brutal language. The lamplighter 
tried to appease her ; but she shut the door in his face. Gerty 
was scolded, beaten, deprived of the ^rust which she usually got 
for her supper, and shut up in her dark attic for the night. Poor 
iittlo child I Her mother ha 1 died in Nan Grant’s b^use five years 


8 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


before ; and she had been tolerated there since, not so much be* 
cause when Ben Grant went to sea he had bade his wife be sure and 
keep the child until his return (for he had been gone so long that 
no one thought he would ever come back) , but because Nan had 
reasons of her own for doing so ; and, though she considered Gerty 
a dead weight upon her hands, she did not care to excite inquiries 
by trying to dispose of her elsewhere. 

When Gerty first found herself locked up for the night in the 
dark garret (Gerty hated and feared the dark) , she stood for a 
minute perfectly still ; then suddenly began to stamp and scream, 
tried to beat open the door, and shouted, “ I hate you, Nan Grant! 
Old Nan Grant, I hate you ! ” But nobody came near her; and, 
after a while, she grew more quiet, went and threw herself down 
on her miserable bed, covered her face with her little thin hands, 
and sobbed and cried as if her heart would break. She wept until 
she was utterly exhausted ; and then, gradually, with only now and 
then a low sob and catching of the breath, she grew quite still. 
By and by she took away her hands from her face, clasped them 
together in a convulsive manner, and looked up at a little glazed 
window by the side of the bed. It was but three panes of glass 
unevenly stuck together, and was the only chance of light the room 
had. There was no moon ; but as Gerty looked up, she saw 
through the window shining down upon her om& bright star. She 
thought she had never seen anything half so beautiful. She had 
often been out of doors when the sky was full of stars, and had 
not noticed them much ; but this one, all alone, so large, so bright, 
and yet so soft and pleasant-looking, seemed to speak to her ; it 
seemed to say, “ Gerty, Gerty ! poor little Gerty ! ” She thought 
it seemed like a kind face, such as she had a long time ago seen 
or dreamt about. Suddenly it flashed through her mind, “Who 
lit it ? Somebody lit it ! Some good person, I know ! Oh ! how 
could he get up so high ! ” And Gerty fell asleep, wondering 
who lit the star. 

Poor little, untaught, benighted soul! Who shall enlighten 
thee ? Thou art God’s child, little one ! Christ died for thee. 
Will he not send man or angel to light up the darkness within, to 
kindle a light that shall never go out, — the light that shall shine 
through all eternity ? 


CHAPTEK II. 


Who shall assuage thy griefs, “ thou tempest-toss\l l '• 

And speak of comfort, “ comfortless ! ” to thee ? 

Emily Tjlylob. 

Gerty awoke the next morning, not as children wake who ar» 
roused by each other’s merry voices, or by a parent’s kiss, who 
have kind hands to help them dress, and know that a nice break- 
fast awaits them. But she heard harsh voices below ; knew, from 
the sound, that the men who lived at Nan Grant’s (her son and 
two or three boarders) had come in to breakfast, and that her only 
chance of obtaining any share of the meal was to be on the spot 
when they had finished, to take that portion of what remained 
which Nan might chance to throw or shove towards her. So she 
crept down-stairs, waited a little out of sight until she smelt the 
smoke of the men’s pipes as they passed through the passage, and, 
when they had all gone noisily out, she slid into the room, looking 
about her with a glance made up of fear and defiance. She met 
but a rough greeting from Nan, who told her she had better drop 
that ugly, sour look ; eat some breakfast, if she wanted it, but 
take care and keep out of her way, and not come near the fire 
plaguing round where she was at work, or she ’d get another 
dressing, worse than she had last night. 

Gerty had not looked for any other treatment, so there was no 
disappointment to bear ; but, glad enough of the miserable food 
left for her on the table, swallowed it eagerly, and, waiting no 
second bidding to keep herself out of the way, took her little old 
hood, threw on a ragged shawl, which had belonged to her 
mother, and which had long been the child’s best protection from 
the cold, and, though he/hands and feet were chilled by the sharp 
air of the morning, ran out of the house. 


10 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


Back of the building where Nan Grant lived, was a large \*ood 
and coal yard ; and beyond that a wharf, and the thick, muddy 
water of the dock. Gerty might have found playmates enough in 
the neighborhood of this place. She sometimes did mingle with 
the troops of boys and girls, equally ragged with herself, who 
played about in the yard, but not often, — there was a league 
against her among the children of the place. Poor, ragged, and 
miserably cared for, as most of them were, they all knew that 
Gerty was still more neglected and abused. They had often seen 
her beaten, and daily heard her called an ugly, wicked child, told 
that she belonged to nobody, and had no business in anjr one’s 
house. Children as they were, they felt their advantage, and 
scorned the little outcast. Perhaps this would not have been the 
case if Gerty had ever mingled freely with them, and tried to be 
on friendly terms. But, while her mother lived there with her, 
though it was but a short time, she did her best to keep her little 
girl away from the rude herd. Perhaps that habit of avoidance, 
but still more a something in the child’s nature, kept her from 
joining in their rough sports, after her mother’s death had left her 
to do as she liked. As it was, she seldom had any intercourse 
with them. Nor did they venture to abuse her, otherwise than in 
words ; for, singly, they dared not cope with her ; — spirited, sud- 
den, and violent, she had made herself feared, as well as disliked. 
Once a band of them had united in a plan to tease and vex her ; 
but Nan Grant, coming up at the moment when one of the girls 
was throwing the shoes, which she had pulled from Gerty’s feet, 
into the dock, had given the girl a sound whipping, and put them 
all to flight. Gerty had not had a pair of shoes skice ; but Nan 
Grant, for once, had done her good service, and the children now 
left her in peace. 

It was a sunshiny, though a cold day, when Gerty ran away 
from the house, to seek shelter in the wood-yard. There was an 
immense pile of timber in one corner of the yard, almost out of 
Bight of any of the houses. Of different lengths and unevenly 
placed, the planks formed, on one side, a series of irregular steps, 
by means of which it was easy to climb up. Near the top was a 
Uttle sheltered recess, overhung by some long planks, and forming 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


11 


a miniature shed, protected by the wood on all sides but one, ar.d 
from that looking out upon the water. 

This was Gerty’s haven of rest, her sanctum, and the only place 
from which she never was driven away. Here, through the long 
summer days, the little, lonesome child sat, brooding over her griefs, 
her wrongs, and her ugliness ; sometimes weeping for hours. Now 
and then, when the course of her life had been smooth for a few 
days (that is, when she had been so fortunate as to offend no one, 
and had escaped whipping, or being shut up in the dark), she 
would get a little more cheerful, and enjoy watching the sailors 
belonging to a schooner hard by, as they labored on board their 
vessel, or occasionally rowed to and fro in a little boat. The warm 
sunshine was so pleasant, and the men’s voices at their work so 
lively, that the poor little thing would for a time forget her woes. 

But summer had gone ; the schooner, and the sailors who had 
been such pleasant company, had gone too. The weather was now 
cold, and for a few days it had been so stormy that Gerty had 
been obliged to stay in the house. Now, however, she made the 
best of her way to her little hiding-place ; and to her joy, the sun- 
shine had reached the spot before her, dried up the boards, so that 
they felt warm to her bare feet, and was still shining so bright and 
pleasant that Gerty forgot Nan Grant, forgot how cold she had 
been, and how much she dreaded the long winter. Her thoughts 
rambled about some time, but, at last, settled down upon the kind 
look and voice of the old lamplighter ; and then, for the first time 
since the promise was made, it came into her mind that he had 
engaged to bring her something the next time he came. She could 
not believe he would remember it ; but still, he might, he seemed 
to be so good-natured, and sorry for her fall. 

What could he mean to bring? Would it be something to eat? 
0, if it were only some shoes ! But he would n’t think of that . 
Perhaps he did not notice but she had some. 

At any rate, Gerty resolved to go for her milk in season to be 
back before it was time to light the lamp, so that nothing should 
prevent her seeing him. 

The day seemed unusually long, but darkness came at last; and 


12 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


with it came True — or, rather, Trueman — Flint, for that was the 
lamplighter’s name. 

Gerty was on the spot, though she took good care to elude Nan 
Grant’s observation. 

True was late about his work that night, and in a great hurry > 
He had only time to speak a few words in his rough way to Gerty ; 
but they were words coming straight from as good and honest a 
heart as ever throbbed. He put his great, smutty hand on her 
head in the kindest way, told her how sorry he was she got hurt, 
and said, “ It was a plaguy shame she should have been whipped, 
too, and all for a spill o’ milk, that was a misfortin’, qnd no 
crime.” 

“ But, here,” added he, diving into one of his huge pockets, 
“ here ’s the critter I promised you. Take good care on ’t; don’t 
’buse it; and, I ’m guessin’, if it ’s like the mother that I ’ve got 
at home, ’t won’t be a little ye ’ll be likin’ it, ’fore you ’re done. 
Good-by, my little gal; ” and he shouldered his ladder and went off, 
leaving in Gerty ’s hands a little gray-and- white kitten. 

Gerty was so taken by surprise, on finding in her arms a live 
kitten, something so different from what she had anticipated, that 
she stood for a minute irresolute what to do with it. There were 
a great many cats, of all sizes and colors, inhabitants of the neigh- 
boring houses and yard, — frightened-looking creatures, which, like 
Gerty herself, crept or scampered about, and often hid themselves 
among the wood and coal, seeming to feel, as she did, great doubts 
about their having a right to be anywhere. Gerty had often felt 
a sympathy for them, but never thought of trying to catch one, 
carry it home, and tame it ; for she knew that food and shelter 
were most grudgingly accorded to herself, and would not certainly 
be extended to her pets. Her first thought, therefore, was to throw 
the kitten down and. let it run away. 

But, while she was hesitating, the little animal pleaded fgr itself 
in a way she could not resist. Frightened by its long imprison* 
ment and journey in True Flint’s pocket, it crept from Gerty’s 
arms up to her neck, clung there tight, and, with its low, feeble 
cries, seemed to ask her to take care of it. Its eloquence pre* 
"idled ever all fear of Nan Grant’s anger. She hugged pussy to 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


13 


her bosom, and made a childish resolve to love it, feed it, and, 
above all, keep it out of Nan’s sight. 

How much she came in time to love that kitten, no words can 
tell. Her little, fierce, untamed, impetuous nature had hitherto 
only expressed itself in angry passion, sullen obstinacy, and even 
hatred. But there were in her soul fountains of warm affection 
yet unstirred, a depth of tenderness never yet called out, and a 
warmth and devotion of nature that wanted only an object to 
expend themselves upon. 

So she poured out such wealth of love on the little creature that 
clung to her for its support as only such a desolate little heart 
has to spare. She loved the kitten all the more for the care she 
was obliged to take of it, and the trouble and anxiety it gave hen 
She kept it, as much as possible, out among the boards, in her own 
favorite haunt. She found an old hat, in which she placed her own 
hood, to make a bed for pussy. She carried it a part of her own 
scanty meals ; she braved for it what she would not have done 
for herself ; for she almost every day abstracted from the kettle, 
when she was returning with the milk for Nan Grant, enough for 
pussy’s supper, running the risk of being discovered and punished, 
the only risk or harm the poor ignorant child knew or thought of, 
in connection with the theft and deception ; for her ideas of abstract 
right and wrong were utterly undeveloped. She would play 
with her kitten for hours among the boards, talk to it, and tell it 
how much she loved it. But, when the days were very cold, she 
was often puzzled to knew how to keep herself warm out of doors, 
and the risk of -bringing the kitten into the house was great. She 
would then hide it in her bosom, and run with it into the little 
garret-room where she slept ; and, taking care to keep the door 
shut, usually eluded Nan’s eyes and ears. Once or twice, when 
she had been off her guard, her little playful pet had escaped from 
her, and scampered through the lower room and passage. Once 
Nan drove it out with a broom ; but in that thickly-peopled region, 
as we have said, cats and kittens were not so uncommon as to ex- 
cite inquiry. 

It may seem strange that Gerty had leisure to spend all her 
time at play. Most children living among the poorer class of 
2 


14 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


people learn to be useful even while they are very young. Num. 
bers of little creatures, only a few years old, may be seen in our 
streets, about the yards and doors of houses, bending under the 
weight of a large bundle of sticks, a basket of shavings, or, more 
frequently yet, a stout baby, nearly all the care of which de- 
volves upon them. We have often pitied such little drudges, and 
thought their lot a hard one. But, after all, it was not the worst 
tiling in the world ; they were far better off than Gerty, who had 
nothing to do at all, and had never known the satisfaction of 
helping anybody. Nan Grant had no babies ; and, being a very 
active woman, with but a poor opinion of children’s services, at the 
best, she never tried to find employment for Gerty, much better 
satisfied if she would only keep out of her sight; so that, except 
her daily errand for the milk, Gerty was always idle, — -a fruitful 
source of unhappiness and discontent, if &be had suffered from 
no other. 

Nan was a Scotchwoman, no longer young, and with a temper 
which, never good, became worse and worse as she grew older. 
She had seen life’s roughest side, had always been a hard-working 
woman, and had the reputation of being very smart and a driver. 
Her husband was a carpenter by trade ; but she made his home 
so uncomfortable, that for years he had followed the sea. She 
took in washing, and had a few boarders ; by means of which she 
earned what might have been an ample support for herself, had it 
not been for her son, an unruly, disorderly young man, spoilt in 
early life by his mother’s uneven temper and management, and 
who, though a skilful workman when he chose to be industrious, 
always squandered his own and a large portion of his mother’s earn- 
ings. Nan, as we have said, had reasons of her own for keeping 
Gerty, though they were not so strong as to prevent her often hav 
ing half a mind to rid herself of the encumbrance. 


CHAPTEK III. 


Mercy and Love have met thee on thj road, 

Thou wretched outcast ! A V ords worth. 

Wiien Gerty had had her kitten about a month, she took a 
violent cold from being out in the damp and rain ; and Nan, 
fearing she should have trouble with her if she became seriously 
ill, bade her stay in the house, and keep in the warm room where 
she was at work. Gerty ’s cough was fearful ; and it would have 
been a great comfort to sit by the stove all day and keep warm, 
had it not been for her anxiety about the kitten, lest it should 
get lost or starve, before she was well enough to be out taking 
cure of it, or, worst of all, come running into the house in search 
of her. The whole day passed away, however, and nothing was 
♦ seen of pussy. Towards night, the men were heard coming in to 
supper. J ust as they entered the door of the room where Nan 
and Gerty were, and where the coarse meal was prepared, one of 
them stumbled over the kitten, which had come in with them, un- 
perceived. 

“ Cracky ! what ’s this ’ere ? ” said the man, whom they all 
were accustomed to call Jemmy ; “ a cat, I vow ! Why, Nan, I 
thought you kind o’ hated cats ! ” 

“ Well, ’t an’t none o’ mine ; drive it out,” said Nan. 

Jemmy started to do so ; but puss, suddenly drawing back, and 
making a circuit round his legs, sprang forward into the arms of 
Gertv, who was anxiously watching its fate. 

“ Whose kitten’s that, Gerty?” said Nan. 

“Mine ! ” said Gerty, bravely. 

“Well, how long have you kept cats, I should like to know?” 
Raid Nan. “ Speak ! How came you by this? ” 


16 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


The men were all looking on. Gerty was afraid of the men 
They sometimes teased, and were always a source of alarm to 
her. She could not think of acknowledging to whom she wai 
indebted for the gift of the kitten ; she knew it would only make 
matters worse, for Nan had never forgiven True Fint’s rough ex- 
postulation against her cruelty in beating the child for spilling the 
milk; and Gerty could not summon presence of mind to think of . 
any other source to which she could ascribe the kitten’s presence, 
or she would not have hesitated to tell a falsehood ; for her very 
limited education had not taugbt her a love or habit of truth 
where a lie would better serve her turn, and save her from punish- 
ment. She was silent and burst into tears. 

“ Come,” said Jemmy, “ give us some supper, Nan, and let the 
gal alone till arterwards.” 

Nan complied, ominously muttering, however. 

The supper was just finished, when an organ-grinder struck up 
a tune outside the door. The men stepped out to join the crowd, 
consisting chiefly of the inmates of the house, who were watching 
the motions of a monkey that danced in time to the music. Gerty 
ran to the window to look out. Delighted with the gambols of 
the creature, she gazed intently, until the man and monkey moved 
off; so intently, that she did not miss the kitten, which, in the 
mean time, crept down from her arms, and, springing upon the 
table, began to devour the remnants of the repast. The organ- 
grinder was not out of sight when Gerty’s eyes fell upon the figure 
of the old lamp^hter coming up the street. She thought she 
would stay and watch him light his lamp, when she was startled 
by a sharp and angry exclamation from Nan* and turned just in 
time to see her snatch her darling kitten from the table. Gerty 
sprang forward to the rescue, jumped into a chair, and caught Nan 
by the arm ; but she firmly pushed her back with one hand, while 
with the other she threw the kitten half across the room. Gerty 
heard a sudden splash and a piercing cry. Nan had flung the poor 
creature into a large vessel of steaming-hot water, which stood 
ready for some household purpose. The little animal struggled 
and writhed an instant, then died in torture. 

All the fury of Gerty’s nature was roused. Without hesita- 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


17 


tion, she lifted a stick of wood which lay near her, and flung it 
at Nan with all her strength. It was well aimed, and struck the 
woman on the head. The blood started from the wound the blow 
had given ; but Nan hardly felt the blow, so greatly was she ex- 
cited against the child. She sprang upon her, caught her by the 
shoulder, and, opening the house-door, thrust her out upon the 
sidewalk. “Ye T1 never darken my doors again, yer imp of 
wickedness ! ” said she, as she rushed into the house, leaving the 
child alone in the cold, dark night. 

When Gerty was angry or grieved, she always cried aloud, — 
not sobbing, a? many children do, but uttering a succession of 
piercing shrieks, a util she sometimes quite exhausted her strength 
When she found herself in the street, she commenced screaming, 
— not from f^ar at being turned away from her only home, and 
left all alone at nightfall to wander about the city, and, perhaps, 
freeze before morning (for it was very cold) ; she did not think 
of lrerse 1 ! for a moment. Horror and grief at the dreadful fate 
of the only thing she loved in the world entirely filled her little 
soul. So she crouched down against the side of the house, her 
faoe hid in her hands, unconscious of the noise she was making, 
and unaware of the triumph of the girl who had once thrown 
way her shoes, and who was watching her from the house-door 
opposite. Suddenly she found herself lifted up and placed on 
one of the rounds of Trueman Flint’s ladder, which still leaned 
against the lamp-post. True held her firmly, just high enough 
on the ladder to bring her face opposite his, recognized her as his 
old acquaintance, and asked her, in the same kind way he had used 
on the former occasion, what was the matter. 

33 ut Gerty could only gasp and say, “0, my kitten ! my kit- 
ten ! ” 

“What! the kitten I gave you? Well, have you lost it? 
Don’t cry ! there — don’t cry ! ” 

“ O, no ! not lost ! 0, poor kitty ! ” and Gerty began to cry 

louder than ever, and coughed at the same time so dreadfully, 
that True was quite frightened for the child. Making every effort 
\o soothe her, and having partially succeeded, he told her sha 
would catch hei death o’ cold, and she must go into the house 
2 * 


13 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


“ 0, she won’t let me in I ” said Gerty, “ and I would n’t go, if 
she would ! ” 

u Who won’t let you in — your mother? ” 

“No. Nan Grants’ 

“Who ’s Nan Grant? ” 

“ She ’s a horrid, wicked woman, that drowned my kitten in 
bilin’ water ! ” 

“ But where ’s your mother? ” 

“ I han’t got none.” 

“ Who do you belong to, you poor little thing?” 

“ Nobody ; and I ’ve no business anywhere ! ” 

“ But who do you live with, and who takes care of you ? ” 
“0,1 lived with Nan Grant ; but I hate her. I threw a stick 
of wood at her head, and I wish I ’d killed her ! ” 

“Hush! hush! you must n’t say that! I ’ll go and speak 
to her.” 

True moved towards the door, trying to draw Gerty in with 
him ; but she resisted so forcibly that he left her outside, and, 
walking directly into the room where Nan was binding up her 
head with an old handkerchief, told her she had better call her 
little girl in, for she would freeze to death out there. 

“ She ’s no child of mine,” said Nan ; “ she ’s been here long 
enough ; she ’s the worst little creature that ever lived ; it ’s a 
wonder I ’ve kept her so long ; and now I hope I ’ll never lay 
eyes on her agin, — and what ’s more, I don’t mean to. She ought 
to be hung for breaking my head ! I believe she ’s got an ill 
spirit in her, if ever anybody did have in this world ! ” 

“ But what ’ll become of her ? ” said True. “ It ’s a fearful cold 
night. How ’d you feel, marm, if she were found to-morrow morn- 
ing all friz up just on your door-step ? ” 

“ How ’d I feel ? That ’s your business ; is it? S’posen you 
take care on her yourself! Yer make a mighty deal o’ fuss about 
the brat. Carry her home, and try how yer like her. Yer ’ve 
been here a talkin’ to me about her once afore ; and I tell you I 
won’t hear a word more. Let other folks see to her, I say ; I ’ve 
had more ’n my share ; • and, as to her freezin’ or dyin’ anyhow, 
l ’ll risk her. Them children that comes into the world nobody 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


19 


knows how, don’t go out of it in a hurry. She ’s the city’s prop- 
erty — let ’em look out for her; and you ’d better go long, and 
not meddle with what don’t consarn you.” 

True did not wait to hear more. He was not used to women ; . 
and an angry woman was the most formidable thing to him in the 
world. Nan’s flashing eyes and menacing attitude were sufficient 
warning of the coming tempest, and he wisely hastened away be- 
fore it should burst upon his head. 

Gerty had ceased crying when he came out, and looked up into 
his face with the greatest interest. 

“Well,” said he, “ she says you sha’n’t come back.” 

“ 0, I ’m so glad ! ” said Gerty. 

“But where ’ll you go to ?” 

“ I don’t know ; p’raps I ’ll go with you, and see you light the 
lamps.” 

“ But where ’ll you sleep to-night? ” 

“ I don’t know where ; I have n’t got any house. I guess 
I ’ll sleep out, where I can see the stars. I don’t like dark places. 
But it ’ll be cold ; won’t it? ” 

“ My goodness ! You ’ll freeze to death, child.” 

“ Well, what ’ll become of me then? ” 

“ The Lord only knows ! ” 

True looked at Gerty in perfect wonder and distress. He knew 
nothing about children, and was astonished at her simplicity. 
He could not leave her there, such a cold night ; but he hardly 
knew what he could do with her if he took her home, for he lived 
alone, and was poor. But another violent coughing spell decided 
him at once to share with her his shelter, fire, and food, for one 
night, at least. So he took her by the hand, saying, “ Come with 
me;” and Gerty ran along confidently by his side, never asking 
whither. 

True had about a dozen more lamps to light before they 
reached the end of the street, when his round of duty was 
finished. Gerty watched him light each one with as keen an 
interest as if that were the only object for which she was in his 
company, and it was only after tVey had reached the corner of the 


20 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


street, and walked on for some distance without stopping, that sbs 
inquired where they were going. 

“Going home,” said True. 

“ Am I going to your home ? ” said Gerty. 

u Yes,” said True, “and here it is.” 

He opened a little gate close to the sidewalk. It led into a 
small and very narrow yard, which stretched along the whole 
length of a decent two-storied house. True lived in the back 
part of the house ; so they went through the yard, passed by 
several windows and the main entrance, and, keeping on to a 
small door in the rear, opened it and went in. Gerty was by 
this time trembling with the cold ; her little bare feet were quite 
blue with walking so far on the pavements. There was a stove 
in the room into which they had entered, but no fire in it. It 
was a large room, and looked as if it might be pretty comfortable, 
though it was very untidy. True made as much haste as he 
could to dispose of his ladder, torch, &c., in an adjoining shed, 
and then bringing in a handful of wood, he lit a fire in the stove. 
In a few minutes there was a bright blaze, and the chilly aunos* 
phere grew warm. Drawing an old wooden settle up to the fire, 
he threw his shaggy great-coat over it, and lifting little Gerty up, 
he placed her gently upon the comfortable seat. He then went to 
work to get supper; for True was an old bachelor, and accus- 
tomed to do everything for himself. He made tea ; then, mixing 
a great mug full for Gerty, with plenty of sugar, and all his 
cent’s worth of milk, he produced from a little cupboard a loaf 
of bread, cut her a huge slice, and pressed her to eat and drink 
as much as she could ; for he judged well when he concluded, 
from her looks, that she had not always been well fed ; and so 
much satisfaction did he feel in her evident enjoyment of the 
best meal she had ever had, that he forgot to partake of it him- 
self, but sat watching her with a tenderness which proved that 
the unerring instinct of childhood had not been wanting in Gerty, 
when she felt, as she watched True about his work, so long before 
he ever spoke to her, that he was a friend to everybody, even to 
the most forlorn little girl in the world. 

Trueman Flint was born and brought up in New Hampshire ; 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


21 


but, when fifteen years old, being left an orphan, he had made his 
way to Boston, where he supported himself for many years by 
whatever employment he could obtain ; having been, at different 
times, a newspaper carrier, a cab-driver, a porter, a wood-cutter, 
indeed, a j ack-at-all- trade s , and so honest, capable, and good- 
tempered, had he always shown himself, that he everywhere won 
a good name, and had sometimes continued for years in the same 
employ. Previous to his entering upon the service in which we 
find him, he had been for some time a porter in a large store, 
owned by a wealthy and generous merchant. Being one day 
engaged in removing some heavy casks, he had the misfortune to 
be severely injured by one of them falling upon his chest. For 
a long time no hope was entertained of his recovering from the 
effects of the accident ; and when he at last began to mend, his 
health returned so gradually that it was a year before he was 
able to be at work again. This sickness swallowed up the savings 
of years ; but his late employer never allowed him to want for 
any comforts, provided an excellent physician, and saw that he 
was well taken care of. 

True, however, had never been the same man since. He rose 
up from his sick bed ten years older in constitution, and his 
strength so much enfeebled that he was only fit for some com- 
paratively light employment. It was then that his kind friend 
and former master obtained for him the situation he now held 
as lamplighter ; in addition to which, he frequently earned con- 
siderable sums by sawing wood, shovelling snow, &c. 

He was now between fifty and sixty years old, a stoutly-built 
man, with features cut in one of nature’s rough moulds, but 
expressive of much good-nature. He was naturally silent and 
reserved, lived much by himself, was known to but few people 
in the city, and had only one crony, the sexton of a neighbor- 
ing church, a very old man, and one usually considered very cross- 
grained and uncompanionable. 

But we left Gerty finishing her supper ; and now, when we 
return to her, she is stretched upon the wide settle, sound asleep, 
covered up with a warm blanket, and her head resting upon a 
pillow. True sits beside her; her little thin hand lies in his 


22 


THE LAMPLIGHTEfu 


great palm , — occasionally he draws the blanket closer round her. 
She breathes hard; suddenly she gives a nervous start, then 
speaks quickly ; her dreams are evidently troubled. True listens 
intently to her words, as she exclaims, eagerly, “ 0, don’t! don’t 
drown my kitty ! ” and then, again, in a voice of fear, “ O, she ’ll 
catch me ! she ’ll catch- me ! ” once more, — and now her tones m 
are touchingly plaintive and earnest, — “Dear, dear, good old 
man, let me stay with you, do let me stay ! ” 

Great tears are in Trueman Flint’s eyes, and rolling down the 
furrows of his rough cheeks ; he lays his great head on the pillow 
and draws Gerty’s little face close to his; at the same time 
smoothing her long, uncombed hair with his hand. He, too, is 
thinking aloud. What does he say ? 

“ Catch you ! no, she shan't ! Stay with me ! so you shall, I 
promise you, poor little birdie ! All alone in this big world, and 
so am I. Please God we ’ll bide together.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


In age, in infancy, from others’ aid 
Is all our hope ; to teach us to be kind < 

That Nature’s first, last lesson to mankind. 

YourcK 

Certy had found a friend and a protector ; and >*• was well 
she had. *br suffering and neglect had well-nigh cut short her sad 
existence and ended all her sorrows. The morning at\er True 
took her home, she woke in a high fever, her head and limbs 
aching, and with every symptom of severe illness. She looked 
around, and found she was alone in the room ; hut there was a 
good fire, and preparation for some breakfast. For a moment or 
two she was puzzled to know where she was, and what had hap- 
pened to her ; for the room seemed quite strange, now that sho 
first saw it by daylight. A look of happiness passed over her 
little sick face when she recalled the events of the previous* 
night, and thought of kind old True, and the new home she had 
found with' him. She got up and went to the window to loot 
out, though her head was strangely giddy, and she tottered sc 
that she could hardly walk. The ground was covered with snow, 
md it was still stormy without. It seemed as if the snow daa 
zled Gerty’s eyes ; for she suddenly found herself quite blinded 
her head grew dizzy, she staggered and fell. 

Trueman came in, a moment after, and was very much fright- 
ened at seeing Gerty stretched upon the floor, but soon found ou\ 
the real state of the case, for he had made up his mind during 
the night that she was a very sick child, and was not surprised 
that she had fainted in endeavoring to walk. He placed her in 
bed, and soon succeeded in restoring her to consciousness ; but, 
for three weeks from that time, she never sat up, except when 


24 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


True held her in his arms. True was a rough and clumsy man 
about most things ; but not so in the care of his little charge. 
He knew a good deal about sickness ; was something of a doctor 
and nurse in his simple way ; and, though he had never had much 
to do with children, his warm heart was a trusty guide, and 
taught him all that was necessary for Gerty’s comfort, and far, 
far more kindness than she had ever experienced before. 

Gerty was very patient. She would sometimes lie awake 
whole nights, suffering from pain and extreme weariness at her 
long confinement to a sick bed, without uttering a groan, or 
making any noise, lest she might waken True, who slept on the 
floor beside her, when he could so far forget his anxiety about 
her as to sleep at all Sometimes, when she was in great pain, 
True had carried her in his arms for hours ; but even then Gerty 
would try to appear relieved before she really was so, and even 
feign sleep, that he might put her back to bed again, and take 
some rest himself. Her little heart was full of love and gratitude 
to her kind protector, and she spent much of her time in thinking 
what she could ever do for him when she got well, and wondering 
whether she were capable of ever learning to do any good thing 
at all. True was often obliged to leave her, to attend to his 
work ; and, during the first week of her sickness, she was much 
alone, though everything she could possibly want was put within 
her reach, and many a caution given to her to keep still in bed 
until his return. At last, however, she grew delirious, and foi 
some days had no knowledge how she was taken care of. One 
day, after a long and quiet sleep, she woke quite restored to sense 
and consciousness, and saw a woman sitting by her bedside sewing. 

She sprang up in bed to look at the stranger, who had not 
observed her open her eyes, but who started the moment she 
heard her move, and exclaimed, “0,. lie down, my child ! lie 
down!” at the same time laying her hand gently upon her, to 
enforce the injunction. 

“ I don’t know you,” said Gerty ; “ where’s my Uncle True ? 99 
for that was the name by which True had told her to call him. 

“ He’s gone out, dear ; he’ll be home soon. How do you feel, — « 
better ? ” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


25 


“ Q, yes ! much better. Have I been asleep long ? ” 

“ Some time ; lie down now, and I ’ll bring you some gruel ) it 
will be good for you.” 

“ Does Uncle True know you are here ? ” 

“ Yes. I came in to sit with you while he was away.” 

“ Came in ? From where ? ” 

“ From my room. I live in the other part of the house .’ 9 

“ I think you ’re very good,” said Gerty. “I like you. 1 
wonder why I did not see you when you came in.” 

“You were too sick, dear, to notice ; but I think you ’ll soon 
be better now.” 

The woman prepared the gruel, and after Gerty had taken it 
reseated herself at her work. Gerty lay down in bed, with her 
face towards her new friend, and, fixing her large eyes upon her, 
watched her some time while she sat sewing. At last the woman 
looked up, and said, “ Well, what do you think I ’m making? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said Gerty ; “ what are you ? ” 

The woman held up her work, so that Gerty could see that it 
was a dark calico frock for a child. 

“ 0, what a nice gown ! ” said Gerty. “ Who is it for, - — your lit- 
tle girl? ” 

“ No,” said the woman, “ I have n’t got any little girl; I ’ve 
only got one child, my boy, Willie.” 

“Willie; that ’s a pretty name,” said Gerty. “Is he a good 
boy ? ” 

“Good? He ’s the best boy in the world, and the hand- 
somest ! ” answered the woman, her pale, careworn face lit up with 
all a mother’s pride. 

Gerty turned away, and a look so unnaturally sad for a child 
came over her countenance, that the woman, looking up, thought 
she was getting tired, and ought to be kept very quiet. She told 
her so, and bade her shut up her eyes and go to sleep again. 
Gerty obeyed the first injunction and lay so still that the latter 
seemed in a fair way to be fulfilled, when the door opened gently, 
and True came in, 

“ 0 ! Miss Sullivan,” said he, “ you ’re here still ! I ’m 


26 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


much obleeged to you for stayin' ; I had n’t calkerlated to be 
gone so long. And how does the child seem to be, marm ? ” 

4 ‘ Much better, Mr. Flint. She ’s come to her reason, and I 
think, with care, will do very well now. 01 she ’s awake,” she 
added, seeing Gerty open her eyes. 

True came up ta the bedside, stroked back her hair, now cut 
short and neatly arranged, felt of her pulse, and nodded his head 
satisfactorily. Gerty caught his great hand between both of hers, 
and held it tight. He sat down on the side of the bed, and, 
glancing at Mrs. Sullivan’s work, said, “ I should n’t be surprised 
if she needed her new clothes sooner than we thought for, marm. 
It ’s my ’pinion we ’ll have her up and about afore many days.” 

“So I was thinking,” said Mrs. Sullivan ; “ but don’t be in too 
great a hurry. She ’s had a very severe sickness, and her recov- 
ery must be gradual. Did you see Miss Graham to-day? ” 

“Yes, I did see her, poor thing! The Lord bless her sweet 
face ! She axed a sight o’ questions about little Gerty here, and 
gave me this parcel of arrer root, I think she called it. She says 
it ’s excellent in sickness. Did you ever fix any, Miss Sullivan, 
so that you can jist show me how, if you ’ll be so good ? for I de- 
clare I don’t remember, though she took a deal o’ pains to tell me.” 

“ 0, yes ; it ’s very easy. I ’ll come in and prepare some, by 
and by. I don’t think Gerty ’ll want any at present ; she ’s just 
had some gruel. But father has come home, and I must be see- 
ing about our tea. I ’ll come in again, this evening, Mr. Flint.” 

“ Thank you, marm, thank you; you ’re very kind.” 

During the few following days Mrs. Sullivan came in and sat 
with Gerty several times. She was a gentle, subdued sort of 
woman, with a placid face, that was very refreshing to a child 
that had long lived in fear, and suffered a great deal of abuse. 
She always brought her work with her, which was usually some 
child’s garment that she was making. 

One evening, when Gerty had nearly recovered from her tedious 
fever, she was sitting in True’s lap by the stove fire, carefully 
wrapped up in a blanket. She had been talking to him about hei 
new acquaintance and friend; suddenly looking up in his face. 


TUB LAMPLIGHTER. 


27 


she said, “Uncle True, do you know what little girl she’s making 
a gown for? ” 

“For a little girl,” said True, “that needs a gown, and a good 
many other things ; for she has n’t got any clothes, as I know on, 
except a few old rags. Do ycu know any such little girl, Gerty ? ” 

“ I guess I do,” said Gerty, with her head a little on one side, 
and a very knowing look. 

“ Well, where is she ? ” 

“ An’t she in your lap? ” 

“ What, you ! — Why, do you think Mrs. Sullivan would spend 
her time making clothes for you ? ” 

“ Well,” said Gerty, hanging her head, “ I should n’t think she 
would ; but then you said — ” 

“ Well, what did I say? ” 

“ Something about new clothes for me.” 

“ So I did,” said True, giving her a rough hug ; “ and they are for 
you ; — two whole suits, and shoes and stockings into the bargain.” 

Gerty opened her large eyes in amazement, laughed and clapped 
her hands. True laughed too ; ^they both seemed very happy. 

“Did she buy them. Uncle True? Is she rich? ” said Gerty. 

“ Miss Sullivan? — no, indeed!” said True. “ Miss Graham 
bought ’em, and is going to pay Miss Sullivan for making them.” 

“Who is Miss Graham ! ” 

“ She T s a lady too good for this world — that’s sartain. I’ll tell 
you about her, some time ; but I better not now, I guess ; it’s time 
you were abed and asleep.” 

One Sabbath, after Gerty was nearly well, she was so much 
fatigued with sitting up all day, that she went to bed before dark, 
and for two or three hours slept very soundly. On awaking, she 
saw that True had company. An old man, much older, she 
thought, than True, was sitting on the opposite side of the stove, 
smoking a pipe. His dress, though of ancient fashion, and homely 
in its materials, was very neat ; and his hair, of which he had but 
little, and that perfectly white, growing in two long locks, just be* 
hind his ears, was nicely combed up, and tied on the top of his 
head, which was elsewhere bald and shiny. He had sharp feat- 
ures, and Gerty thought, from his looks, it must be easy for him 


28 


THE LAMPLIGHTEK. 


to say sharp things ; indeed, rather hard for him to say anything 
pleasant. There was a sarcastic expression about the corners of 
his mouth, and a disappointed look in his whole face, which Gerty 
observed, though she could not have defined, and from which she 
drew her conclusions with regard to his temper. She rightly con- 
jectured that he was Mrs. Sullivan’s father, Mr. Cooper ; and in 
;he opinion she formed of him from her first observation she did 
not widely differ from most other people who knew the old church- 
sexton. But both his own face and public opinion somewhat 
wronged him. It was true his was not a genial nature. Domes** 
tic trials, and the unkindness and fickleness of fortune, had caused 
him to look upon the dark side of life, — to dwell upon its sorrows, 
and frown upon the bright hopes of the young and the gay, who, 
as he was wont to say, with a mysterious shake of his head, knew 
but little of the world. The occupation, too, which had of late 
years been his, was not calculated to counteract a disposition to 
melancholy; his duties in the church were mostly solitary, and, 
as he was much withdrawn in his old age from intercourse with 
the world at large, he had become, severe towards its follies, and 
unforgiving towards its crimes. There was much that was good 
and benevolent in him, however ; and True Flint knew it, and loved 
to draw it out. True liked the old man's sincerity and honesty ; 
and many a Sabbath evening had they sat by that same fireside, 
and discussed all those questions of public policy, national institu- 
tions, and individual rights, which every American feels called 
upon to take under his especial consideration, beside many mat- 
ters of private feeling and interest, without their friendly rela- 
tions being once disturbed or endangered ; and this was the more 
remarkable, inasmuch as Trueman Flint was the very reverse of 
old Paul Cooper in disposition and temper, being hopeful and 
sanguine, always disposed to look upon the bright side of things, 
and, however discouraging they might seem, ever averring that it 
was his opinion ’t would all come out right at last. On the even- 
ing of which we are speaking, they had been talking on several 
of their usual topics ; but when Gerty awoke, she found herself 
the subject of conversation. Of course she soon became deeply 
interested 


TEE LAMPLIGHTER. 


29 


“ Where,” said Mr Cooper, “ did you say you picked lier up? ” 
“At Nan Grant’s,” said True. “Don’t you remember her? 
She’s the same woman whose son you were called up to wit- 
ness against, at the time the church-windows were broken, the 
night afore the 4th of July. You can’t have forgotten her at the 
trial, Cooper ; for she blew you up with a vengeance, and did n’t spare 
his honor the Judge, either. Well, ’t was just such a rage she 
was in with this ’ere child, the first time I see her ; and the second 
time she’d just turned her out o’ doors.” 

“ Ah, yes, I remember the she-bear. I should n’t suppose she’d 
be any too gentle to her own child, much less a stranger’s ; but 
what are you going to do with the foundling, Flint? ” 

“Do with her? — Keep her, to be sure, and take care on her.” 
Cooper laughed rather sarcastically. 

“ Well, now, I s’pose, neighbor, you think it’s rather freakish in 
me to be adoptin’ a child at my time o’ life ; and p’raps it is ; but 
I’ll explain to you just how ’t was. She’d a died that night I 
tell yer on, if I had n’t brought her home with me ; and a good 
many times since, what’s more, if I, with the help o’ your darter, 
had n’t took mighty good care on her. Well, she took on so in 
her sleep, the first night ever she came, and cried out to me all as 
if she never had a friend afore (and I doubt me she never had), 
that I made up my mind then she should stay, at any rate, and 
I’d take care on her, and share my last crust with the wee thing, 
come what might. The Lord ’s been very marciful to me, Mr. 
Cooper, very marciful. He’s raised me up friends in my deep 
distress, I knew, when I was a little shaver, what a lonesome 
thing it was to be fatherless and motherless ; and when I see this 
little sufferin’ human bein’, I felt as if, all friendless as she seemed, 
she was more partickerlerly the Lord’s, and as if I could not sarve 
him more, and ought not to sarve him less, than to share with 
her the blessin’s he has bestowed on me. You look round, neigh- 
bor, as if you thought ’t wan’t much to share with any one ; and 
’t an’t much there is here, to be sure ; but it’s a home — yes, a home ; 
and that’s a great thing to her that never had one. I’ve got my 
hands yet, and a stout heart, and a willin’ mind. With God’s 
3 * 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


30 

help, I’ll be a father to that child ; and the time may come when 
she’ll be God’s embodied blessin’ to me.” 

Mr. Cooper shook his head doubtfully, and muttered something 
about children, even one’s own, not being apt to prove blessings. 

But he had not power to shake Trueman’s high faith in the 
wisdom, as well as righteousness, of his own proceedings. He 
had risen in the earnestness with which he had spoken, and, after 
pacing the room hastily and with excitement, he returned to his 
seat, and said, “Besides, neighbor Cooper, if I had not made 
up my mind the night Gerty came here, I would n’t have sent her 
away after the next day; for the Lord, I think, spoke to me by 
the mouth of one of his holy angels, and bade me persevere in 
my resolution. You’ve seen Miss Graham. She goes to your 
church regular, with the fine old gentleman, her father. I was 
at their house shovelling snow, after the great storm three weeks 
since, and she sent for me to come into the kitchen Well may 
I bless her angel face, poor thing ! — if the world is dark to her, 
she makes it light to other folks. She cannot see Heaven’s sun- 
shine outside ; but she’s better off than most people, for she’s got 
it in her, I do believe, and when she smiles it lets the glory out, 
and looks like God’s rainbow in the clouds. She’s done me many 
a kindness, since I got hurt so bad in her father’s store, now some 
five years gone ; and she sent for me that day, to ask how I did, 
and if there was anything I wanted that she could speak to the 
master about. So I told her all about little Gerty ; and, I tell you, 
she and I both cried ’fore I’d done. She put some money into 
my hand, and told me to get Miss Sullivan to make some clothes 
for Gerty ; more than that, she promised to help me if I got into 
trouble with the care of her ; and when I was going away, she 
said, ‘ I’m sure you’ve done quite right, True ; the Lord will 
bless and reward your kindness to that poor child.’ ” 

True was so excited and animated by his subject, that he did 
not notice what the sexton had observed, but did not choose to 
interrupt Gerty had risen from her bed and was standing be- 
side True, her eyes fixed upon his face, breathless with the interest 
she felt in his words. She touched his shculder; he locked 
round, saw her, and stretched out his arms She sprang into 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


81 


them, buried her face in his bosom, and, bursting into a paroxysm 
of joyful tears, gasped out the words, “ Shall I stay with you 
always ?” 

“Yes, just as long as I live,” said True, “you shall be my 

child” 




CHAPTER V. 


A light, busy foot astir 
In her small housewifery ; the blithest bee 
That ever wrought in hive. 

Milford. 

It was a stormy evening. Gerty was standing at the window, 
watching for True’s return from his lamplighting. She was neatly 
and comfortably dressed, her hair smooth, her face and hands 
clean. She was now quite well — better than for years before 
her sickness. Care and kindness had done wonders for her, and,, 
though still a pale and rather slender* looking child, with eyes and 
mouth disproportionately large to her other features, the painful 
look of suffering she had been wont to wear had given place to a 
happy though rather grave expression. On the wide window- 
sill in front of her, sat a plump and venerable cat, parent to 
Gerty’s lost darling, and for that reason very dear to her ; she 
was quietly stroking its back, while tbo constant purring that the 
old veteran kept up, proved her satisfaction at the arrangement. 

Suddenly a rumbling, tumbling sound was heard in the wall. 
The house was old, and furnished with ample accommodations 
for rats, who seemed, from the noise, to \irve availed themselves 
of this fact to give a ball, such an excitement were they mani- 
festing. One would almost have thought a chimney was falling 
down, brick by brick. It did not alarm Ger^v, however ; she was 
used to eld, rat-inhabited walls, and too much a-customed to hear- 
ing such sounds all around her, when she slepi rn the garret at 
Nan Grant’s, to be disturbed by them. Not lx , however, with 
the ancient grimalkin, who pricked up her ears, and pave* sve r y 
sign of a disposition to rush into battle. No w'u-Ws* cw' ! 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


33 


have been more excited by the sound of the trumpet, than 
was puss at the rushing of her foes through the ceiling. 

“ Lie still, pussy,” said Gerty, 4 4 lie still, I say ; don’t you be 
running off after rats. You must sit up straight, and be good, 
till you see Uncle True coming, so’s to hear what he’ll say when 
he sees the room and me.” 

Here Gerty turned and glanced around the room with an air 
a infinite satisfaction ; then, clambering upon the wide, old-fash- 
ioned window-sill, where she could see up the yard, and have a 
full view of the lamplighter the moment he entered the gate, 
she took the cat in her arms, smoothed down her dress, gave a 
look of interest and pride at her shoes and stockings, and then 
composed herself, with a determined effort to be patient. It 
would not do, however ; she could not be patient ; it seemed to 
her that he never came so late before, and she was just beginning 
to think he never would come at all, when he turned into the gate. 
It was nearly dark, but Gerty could see that there was some per- 
son with him. He did not look tall enough to be Mr. Cooper, 
and did not step like him ; but she concluded it must be he, for 
whoever it was stopped at his door further up the yard, and went 
in. Impatient as Gerty had been for True’s arrival, she did not 
run to meet him as usual, but waited in a listening attitude, until 
she heard him come in through the shed, where he was in the 
habit of stopping to hang up his' ladder and lantern, and * remove 
the soiled frock and overalls which he wore outside his clothes 
when about his work. She then ran and hid behind the door by 
which he must enter the room. She evidently had some great 
surprise in store for him, and meant to enjoy it to the utmost. 
The cat, not being so full of the matter, whatever it was, was 
more mindful of her manners, and went to meet him, rubbing her 
head against his legs, which was her customary welcome. 

44 Hollo, whiskers ! ” said True ; 44 where’s my little gal? ” 

He shut the door behind him as he spoke, thus disclosing Gerty 
to view. She sprang forward with a bound, laughed, and looked 
first at her own clothes, and then in True's face, to see what he 
would think of her appearance. 

4 4 Well, I declare ! ” said he, lifting her up in his arms and 


154 


TTTE LAMPLIGHTER. 


carrying her nearer to the light; “little folks do look famous! 
New gown, apron, shoes ! — got ’em all on ! And who fixed your 
hair ? My, you an’t none too handsome, sartain, but you do look 
famous nice ! ” 

" Mrs. Sullivan dressed me all up, and brushed my hair ; and 
more too — don’t you see what else she has done ? ” 

True followed Gerty ’s eyes as they wandered around the room. 
He looked amazed enough to satisfy her anticipations, great as 
they had been ; and no wonder. He had been gone since mom: ng, 
and things had indeed undergone a transformation. Woman’s 
nands had evidently been at work, clearing up and setting to 
rights. 

Until Gerty came to live with True, his home had never been 
subjected to female intrusion. Living wholly by himself, and en- 
tertaining scarcely any visitors, it had been his habit to make 
himself comfortable in his own way, utterly regardless of appear- 
ances. In his humble apartment sweeping-day came but seldom, 
and spring cleaning was unknown. Two large windows, facing 
the yard, were treated with great injustice, the cheerful light they 
were capable of affording being half obscured by dirt and smoke. 
The corners of the ceiling were festooned with cobwebs ; the high, 
broad mantle-piece had accumulated a curious medley of things 
useful and useless ; while there was no end to the rubbish that had 
collected under the stove. Then the furniture, some of which 
was very good, was adjusted in the most inconvenient manner, 
and in a way to turn the size of the room to the least possible ad- 
vantage. During Gerty’s illness, a bed made up on the floor for 
True’s use, and the various articles which had been required in 
her sick-room, had increased the clutter to such an extent that 
one almost needed a pilot to conduct him in safety through the 
apartment. 

Now, Mrs. Sullivan was the soul of neatness. tier rooms were 
like wax- work. Her own dress was almost quaker-like in its extreme 
simplicity, and freedom from the least speck or stain. No one could 
meet her old father, or her young son, even in their working dress, 
without perceiving at once the evidence of a careful daughter and 
mother’s handiwork. It was to nurse Gerty, and take care of her ia 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


35 


True’s absence, that sbe first entered a room so much tbe reverse of 
her own ; and it is not easy to appreciate the degree in which the 
virtue and charity of her so doing was enhanced, unless one can 
realize how painful the contrast was to her, and how excessively 
annoying she found it, to spend sometimes a whole afternoon in a 
room, which, as she expressed herself afterwards at home, it would 
have been a real pleasure to her to clear up and put to rights, if 
it were only to see how it would look, and whether anybody 
would recognize it. Mrs. Sullivan was a little bit of a woman, 
but had more capability and energy than could have been found in 
any one among twenty others twice her size. She really pitied 
those whose home was such a mass of confusion ; felt sure that 
they could not be happy ; and inwardly determined, as soon as 
Gerty got well, to exert herself in the cause of cleanliness and 
order, which was in her eyes the cause of virtue and happiness, so 
completely did she identify outward neatness and purity with 
inward peace. She pondered in her own mind how she could 
broach the subject of a renovation in his affairs to True himself, 
without wounding his feelings ; for she was herself so sensitive on 
a point of neatness, that she imagined he must be somewhat the 
same, — and the little woman, being as tender-hearted as she was 
tidy, would not have mortified him for the world, — when a mode 
of action was suggested to her by Gerty herself. 

On the day previous to that on which the great cleaning opera- 
lions took place, Gerty was observed by Mrs. Sullivan standing in 
the passage near her door, and looking shyly but wistfully in. 

“ Come in, Gerty,” said the kind little woman ; “ come in and 
see me. Here,” added she, seeing how timid the child felt about 
intruding herself into a strange room ; “you may sit up here by 
the table, and see me iron. This is your own little dress. I am 
smoothing it out, and then your things will all be done. You’ll 
be glad of some new clothes, shan’t you ? ” 

“Very glad, marm,” said Gerty. “ Am I to take them away, 
and keep them all myself? ” 

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Sullivan. 

“ I don’t know where I’ll put ’em all ; there an’t no nice place in 
our room, — at least, no very nice place,” said Gerty, glancing 


36 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


with admiration at the open drawer, in which Mrs. Sullivan was 
now placing the little dress, adding it to a pile of neatly-folded 
garments. 

“ Why, part of them, you know, you’ll be wearing,” said Mrs. 
Sullivan ; “ and we must find some good place for the rest.” 

“ You’ve got good places for things,” said Gerty, looking round 
the room ; “ this is a beautiful room, is n’t it ? ” 

“Why, it is n’t very different from Mr. Flint’s. It’s just 
about the same size, and two front windows like his. My cup- 
board is the best ; yours is only a three-cornered one ; but that’s 
about all the difference.” 

“ 0, but then yours don’t look one bit like ours. You have n’t 
got any bed here, and all the chairs stand in a row, and the table 
shines, and the floor is so clean, and the stove is new, and the sun 
comes in so bright ! Oil wish our room was like this ! I 
should n’t think ours was more than half as big, either. Why, 
Uncle True stumbled over the tongs, this morning, and he said 
there was n’t room there to swing a cat.” 

“Where were the tongs?” said Mrs. Sullivan. 

“ About in the middle of the floor, marm.” 

“ Well, you see I .don’t keep things in the middle of the floor. 
I think, if your room were all cleaned up, and places found for 
everything, it would look almost $s well as mine.” 

“ I wish it could be fixed up nice,” said Gerty; “but what 
could be done with those beds ? ” 

“I ’ve been thinking about that. There’s that little pantry, — 
or bathing-room, I think it must have been once, when this house 
was new, and rich people lived in it ; that’s large enough to hold a 
small bedstead and a chair or two ; ’t would be quite a comfortable 
little chamber for you. There’s nothing in it but rubbish, that 
might just as well be thrown away, or, if it were good for anything, 
put in the shed.” 

“ 0, that ’ll be nice ! ” said Gerty ; “ then Uncle True can have 
his bed back again, and I ’ll sleep on the floor in there.” 

“ No,” said Mrs. Sullivan ; “it won’t be necessary for you to 
sleep on the floor. I ’ve got a very good little cross-legged bed- 
«taad that my Willie slept on when he lived at home ; and 1 will 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


87 


send it to you, if you’ll try to take good care of it, and of e^ery 
thing else that is puf into your room.” 

“ 0, I will,” said Gerty. — “ But can I ? ” added she, hesitating 
“ do you think I can ? I don’t know how to do anything.” 

‘‘You never have been taught to do anything, my child; but a 
girl eight years old can do a great many things, if she is patient 
and tries hard to learn. I could teach you to do a great deal that 
would be useful, and that would help your Uncle True very 
much.” 

“ What could I do 2 ” 

“ You could sweep the room up every day ; you could make the 
beds, after a fashion, with a little help in turning them ; you could 
set the table, toast the bread, and wash the dishes. Perhaps you 
would not do these things in the best manner at first ; but you 
would keep improving, and by and by get to be quite a nice little 
house-keeper.” 

“ 0, I wish I could do something for Uncle True ! ” said Gerty * 

but how could I ever begin ? ” 

“ In the first place, you must have things cleaned up for you 
If I thought Mr. Flint would like it, I ’d get Kate McCai ty to 
come in some day and help us ; and I think we could make a great 
improvement in his home.” 

“ O, I know he’d like it,” said Gerty; “’t would be grand! 
May I help ? ” 

“ Yes, you may do what you can ; but Kate ’ll be the best hand . 
she ’s strong, and knows how to do cleaning very well.” 

“ Who ’s she ? ” said Gerty. 

“ Kate ? — She ’s Mrs. McCarty’s daughter, in the next house. 
M r. Flint does them many a good turn, — saws wood, and so op 
They do most of his washing ; but they can’t half pay him all the 
kindness he ’s done that family. Kate ‘s a clever girl ; she ’ll b* 
glad to come and work for him, any day. I ’ll ask her.” 

“Will she come to-morrow ? ” 

“ Perhaps she will.” 

“ Uncle True ’s going to be gone all day to-morrow,” said Gerty , 
“ he ’s going to get in Mr. Eustace’s coal. Wouldn’t it be a gooi 

lime ? ” 


4 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


88 


“ Very,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “ I ’ll try and get Kate to c'une 
to-morrow.” 

Kate came. The room was thoroughly cleaned, and put in com- 
plete order. Gerty’s new clothes were delivered over to her own 
keeping ; she was neatly dressed in one suit, the other placed in a 
little chest which was found in the pantry, and which accommo 
dated her small wardrobe very well. 

It was the result of all Mrs. Sullivan’s, Kate’s and Gerty’s com* 
bined labor which called forth True’s astonishment on his return from 
his work ; and the pleasure he manifested made the day a memor- 
able one in Gerty’s life, one to be marked in her memory as long 
as she lived, as being the first in which she had known that happi- 
ness — perhaps the highest earth affords — of feeling that she had 
been instrumental in giving joy to another. Not that Gerty’s 
assistance had been of an) great value ; or that all could not have 
been done as well, or even better, if she had been where Nan 
Grant always put her, — out of the way. But the child did not 
realize that : she had been one of the laborers ; she had entered 
heart and soul into every part of the work ; wherever she had been 
allowed to lend a helping hand, she had exerted her whole 
strength. She could say, with truth, “ We did it, — Mrs. Sullivan, 
Kate and 

None but a loving heart, like Mrs. Sullivan’s, would have 
understood and sympathized in the feeling which made Gerty so 
eager to help. But she did, and allotted to her many little ser- 
vices, which the child felt herself more blessed in being permitted to 
perform than she would have done at almost any gift or favor that, 
could have been bestowed upon her. 

She led True about to show him how judiciously and ingeniously 
Mrs. Sullivan had contrived to make the most of the room and the 
furniture ; how, by moving the bed into a deep recess, which was 
just wide enough for it, she had reserved the whole square area, 
and made, as True declared, a parlor of it. It was some time 
before he could be made to believe that half his property had not 
been spirited away, so incomprehensible was it to him that so 
much additional space and comfort could be acquired by \ little 
ystem and order 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


39 


But his astonishment and Gerty’s delight reached their climax 
when she introduced nim into the former lumber-closet, now trans- 
formed into a realiy snug and comfortable bed-room. 

“Well, I declare! Well, 1 declare!’’ was all the old man 
could seem to say. He sat down beside the stove, now polished, 
and made, as Gerty declared, new, just like Mrs. Sullivan’s , 
rubbed his hands together, for they were cold with being out in 
the frosty evening, and then, spreading them in front of the fire, 
took a general view of his reformed domicile, and of Gerty, who, 
according to Mrs. Sullivan’s careful instiuctions, was preparing to 
set the table and toast the bread for supper. She was standing on 
a chair, taking down the cups and saucers from among the regular 
rows of dishes shining in the three-cornered cupboard, having 
already deposited on the lower shelf, where she could reach it 
from the floor, a plate containing some smoothly-cut slices of 
bread, which the thoughtful Mrs. Sullivan had prepared for her. 
True watched her motions for a minute or two, and then indulge 1 
m a short soliloquy. “ Mrs. Sullivan ’s a clever woman, sartain, 
and they ’ve made my old house here complete, and Gerty ’s gottin 
to be like the apple of my eye and I ’m as happy a man as — 


CHAPTER Y I 


Some dream that they can silence, when they will. 

The storm of passion, and say peace , be still l 

COWPER. 

Bmu True was interrupted. Quick, noisy footsteps in the pas- 
sage weje followed by a sudden and unceremonious opening of the 
door. 

*' Here, Uncle True,” said the new comer ; “ here ’s your pack, 
age. You forgot all about it, I guess; and I forgot it, too, till 
mother saw it on the table, where I ’d laid it down. I was so 
taken up with just coming home, you know.” 

44 Of course, — of course !” said True. 44 Much obleeged to you, 
Willie, for fetchin’ it for me. It ’s pretty brittle stuff it ’s made 
of, and most like I should a smashed it, ’fore I got it home.” 

44 What is it ? — I ’ve been wondering.” 

44 Why, it ’s a little knick-knack I ’ye brought home for Gerty 
here, that — ” 

44 Willie ! Willie ! ” called Mrs. Sullivan from the opposite room, 
4 have you been to tea, dear ? ” 

44 No, indeed, mother ; — have you ? ” 

44 Why, yes ; but I ’ll get you some.” 

44 No, no ! ” said True ; 44 stay and take tea with us, Willie ; 
take tea here, my boy. My little Gerty is makin’ some famous 
toast, and I ’ll put the tea a steepin’ presently.” 

44 So I will,” said Willie ; 44 1 should like to, first-rate. No mat- 
ter about any supper for me, mother ; I ’m going to have my tea 
here, with Uncle True. Come, now, let ’s see what ’s in the bundle ; 
out first I want to see little Gerty ; mother ’s been telling me 
about her Where is she ? — has she got well ? She ’s been ? 
sick hasn'tshs?” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


41 


“ O, yes, she ’s nicely now,” said True. “ Here Gerty, look 
here ! Why, where is she ? ” 

“ There she is, hiding up behind the settle,” said Willie, laugh 
ing. “ She an’t afraid of me, is she ? ” 

“ WeU, I did n’t know as she was shy,” said True. “ You silly 
little girl,” added he, going towards her, “ come out here, and see 
Willie. This is Willie Sullivan.” 

I don’t want to see him,” said Gerty. 

“ Don’t want to see Willie ! ” said True ; “ why, you don’t know 
what you ’re say in’. Willie ’s the best boy that ever was ; I 
spect you and he ’ll be great friends, by and by.” 

He won’t like me,” said Gerty ; “ I know he won’t ! ” 

“ Why shan’t I like you ? ” said Willie, approaching the corner 
where Gerty had hid herself. Her face was covered with her 
hands, according to her usual fashion when anything distressed 
her. “ I guess I shall like you first-rate, when I see you.” 

He stooped down as he spoke, for he was much taller than 
Gerty, and, taking her hands directly down from her face and 
lolding them tight in his own, he fixed his eyes full upon her, 
ind, nodding pleasantly, said, 

“ How do do, Cousin Gert) — how do do ? ” 

“ I an’t your cousin ! ” said Gerty. 

“ Yes you are,” said Willie, decidedly ; “ Uncle True ’s your 
mcle, and mine too ; — so we ’re cousins — don’t you see ? — and 
k want to get acquainted.” 

Gerty could not resist Willie’s good-natured words and manner. 
She suffered him to draw her out of the corner, and towards the 
lighter end of the room. As she came near the lamp, she tried to 
free her hands, in order to cover her face up again ; but Willie 
would not let her, and, attracting her attention to the unopened 
package, and exciting her curiosity as to what it might contain, 
he succeeded in diverting her thoughts from herself, so that in a 
few minutes she seemed quite at her ease. 

“There, Uncle True says it ’s for you,” said Willie; “ and I can’t 
think what ’t is, can you ? Feel — it ’s hard as can be *’ 

Gerty felt, and looked up wonderingly in True’s face, 
u Undo it, Willie,” said True. 

4 * 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 




Willie produced a knife, cut the string, took off the paper, and 
disclosed one of those wh’te plaster images, so familiar to every 
one, representing the little Samuel in an attitude of devotion. 

“ 0, how pretty ! ” exclaimed Gerty, full of delight. 

44 Why did n’t I think ? ” said Willie ; “ I might have known 
what ’t was, by the feeling.” 

“ Why ! did you ever see it before ? ” said Gerty. 

“ Not this same one ; but I ’ve seen lots jusfc like it.” 

44 Have you ? ” said Gerty. 44 1 never did. I think it ’s the 
oeautifullest thing that ever was. Uncle True, did you say it was 
for me ? Where did you get it ? ” 

44 It was by an accident I got it. A few minutes before I met 
you, Willie, I was stoppin’ at the corner to light my lamp, when I 
saw one of those furren boys with a sight o’ these sort of things, 
and some black ones too, all set up on a board, and he was walkin’ 
with ’em a-top of his head. I was just a wonderin’ how he kept ’em 
there, when he hit the board agin my lamp-post, and, the first thing 
I knew, whack they all went ! He ’d spilt ’em every one. Lucky 
enough for him, there was a great bank of soft snow close to the 
side-walk, and the most of ’em fell into that, and was n’t hurt. 
Some few went on to the bricks, and were smashed. Well, I kind 
o’ pitied the feller ; for it was late, and I thought like enough he 
had n’t had much luck sellin’ of ’em, to have so many left on his 
hands — ” 

44 On his head, you mean,” said Willie. 

“Yes, Master Willie, or on the snow,” said True; “any way 
you ’re a mind to have it.” 

“ And I know what you did, Uncle True, just as well as if I ’d 
seen you,” said Willie ; “ you set your ladder and lantern right 
down, and went to work helping him pick ’em all up, — that’s 
just what you ’d be sure to do for anybody. I hope, if ever you 
get into trouble, some of the folks you ’ve helped will be by to 
make return.” 

44 This feller, Willie, did n’t wait for me to get into trouble ; he 
made return right off. When they were all set right, he bowed, 
and scraped, and touched his hat to me, as if I ’d been the biggest 
gentleman in the land ; talkin’, too, he was, all the time, though 1 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


13 


could n’f make out a word of Iris lingo ; and then he insisted on 
my takin 5 one o’ the figurs. I wan’t agoin to, for I did n’t want 
it; but I happened to think little Gerty might like it.” 

“ 0, 1 shall like it ! ” said Gerty. “ I shall like it better than - 
no, not better, but almost as well as my kitten ; not quite as wen, 
because that was alive, and this is n’t ; but almost . O, an’t he a 
cunning little boy ? ” 

True, finding that Gerty was wholly taken up with the image, 
walked away and began to get the tea, leaving the two chiktren 
to entertain each other. 

“ You must take care and not break it, Gerty,” said Willie. 
“We had a Samuel once, just like it, in the shop ; and I dropped 
it out of my hand on to the counter, and broke it into a million 
pieces.” 

“ What did you call it ? ” said Gerty. 

“ A Samuel ; they ’re all Samuels.” 

“ What are Sammies ? ” said Gerty. 

“ Why, that ’s the name of the child they ’re taken for.” 

“ What do you s’pose he ’s sittin’ on his knee for ? ” 

Willie laughed. “ Why, don’t you know ? ” said he 
“ No,” said Gerty ; “ what is he ? ” 

“ He ’s praying,” said Willie. 

“ Is that what he ’s got his eyes turned up for, too ? ” 

“ Yes, of course ; he looks up to heaven when he prays.” 

‘ Up to where ? ” 

‘ To heaven.” 

Gerty looked up at the ceiling in the direction in which the 
-, s were turned, then at the figure. She seemed very much dis- 
satisfied and puzzled. 

Why, Gerty,” said Willie, “ I should n’t think you knew wha* 
playing was.” 

“ I don’t,” said Gqrty ; “ tell me.” 

“ Don’t you ever pray, — pray to God ? ” 

“ No I don’t. — Who is God ? Where is God ? ’ 

Willie looked inexpressibly shocked at Gerty ’s ignorance, 
answered, reverently, “ God is in- heaven, Gerty ” 


44 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


44 I don’t know where that is,” said Gerty. “ I believe I do& 
know nothin’ about it.” 

“ I should n’t think you did,” said Willie. 44 I belwve heaven 
is up in the sky ; but my Sunday-school teacher says, 4 heaven is 
anywhere where goodness is,’ or some such thing,” he said. 

' 44 Are the stars in heaven ? ” said Gerty. 

Thpy look so, don’t they ? ” said Willie. 44 They ’re in the 
sky, where I always used to think heaven was,” 

44 1 should like to go to heaven,” said Gerty. 

44 Perhaps, if you ’re good, you will go, some time.” 

44 Can’t any but good folks go ? ” 

4< No.” 

44 Then I can’t ever go,” said Gerty, mournfully. 
w Why not ? ” said Willie ; 44 an’t you good ? ” 

44 0, no ! I ’m very bad.” 

u What a queer child ! ” said Willie. 44 What makes you think 
yourself so very bad ? ” 

44 0 ! I am ,” said Gerty, in a very sad tone ; 44 1 ’in the worst 
of all. I ’m the worst child in the world.” 

4< Who told you so ? ” 

44 Everybody. Nan Grant says so, and she says, everybody 
thinks so ; I know it, too, myself.” 

44 Is Nan Grant the cross old woman you used to live with ? ” 

44 Ye's. How did you know she was cross ? ” 

44 0, my mother ’s been telling me about her. Well, I want to 
know if she did n’t send you to school, or teach you anything ? ” 
Gerty shook her head. 

44 Why, what lots you ’ve got to learn ! What did you used to 
do, when, you lived there ? ” 

64 Nothing.” 

44 Never did anything, and don’t know anything ; my gracious ' ” 
44 Yes, I do know one thing,” said Gerty. 44 1 know how to toast 
bread ; — your mother taught me ; — she let me toast some by 
her fire.” 

As she spoke, she thought of her own neglected toast, and 
&imed towards the stove ; but .she was too late, — the toast was 
made, the supper ready, and True was ust putting it on the tablo 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


4b 


u O, Uncle T ue,” said she, “ I meant to get the tea.” 

“I know it,” said True, “ but it’s no matter; you can get it 
to-morrow.’' 

The tears came into Gerty’s eyes; — she looked very much 
disappointed, but said nothing. They all sat down to supper. 
Willie put the Samuel in the middle of the table for a centre 
ornament, and told so many funny stories, and said so many 
pleasant things, that Gerty laughed heartily, forgot that she did 
not make the toast herself, forgot her sadness, her shyness, even 
her ugliness and wickedness, and showed herself, for once, a 
merry child. After tea, she sat beside Willie on the great settle, 
and, in her peculiar way, and with many odd expressions and 
remarks, gave him a description of her life at Nan Grant’s, 
winding up with a touching account of the death of her kitten. 

The two children seemed in a fair way to become as good 
triends as True could possibly wish. True himself sat on the 
opposite side of the stove, smoking his pipe ; his elbows on his 
knees, his eyes bent on the children, and his ears drinking in all 
their conversation. He was ne restraint upon them. So simple- 
hearted and sympathizing a being, so ready to be amused and 
pleased, so slow to blame or disapprove, could never be any 
check upon the gayety or freedom of the youngest, most careless 
spirit. He laughed when they laughed ; seemed soberly satisfied, 
and took long whiffs at his pipe, when they talked quietly and 
sedately ; ceased smoking entirely, letting his pipe rest on his 
knee, and secretly wiping away a tear, when Gerty recounted 
her childish griefs. He had heard the story before, and he 
cried then. He often heard it afterwards, but never u :r rwnU 
trying. 

After Gerty had closed her tale of sorrows, which was fre- 
pently interrupted by Willie’s ejaculations of condolence 01 
pity, she sat for a moment without speaking: then, becoming 
excited, as her ungoverned and easily roused nature dwelt upon 
its wrongs, she burst forth in ^ very different tone from that in 
which she had been speaking, and commenced uttering the most 
bitter invectives against Nan Grant, making use of many a 
rough and coarse term, such as she had been accustomed to hear 


46 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


used by the ill-bred people with whom she had lived. The child's 
language expressed unmitigated hatred, and even a hope of 
future revenge. True looked worried and troubled at hearing hei 
ta.k so angrily. Since he brought her home he had never wit- 
nessed such a display of temper, and had fondly believed that 
she would always be as quiet and gentle as during her illness and 
the few weeks subsequent to it. True’s own disposition was so 
placid, amiable and forgiving, that he could not imagine that any 
one, and especially a little child, should long retain feelings of 
anger and bitterness. Gerty had shown herself so mild and 
patient since she had been with him, so submissive to his wishes, 
so anxious even to forestall them, that it had never occurred to 
him to dread any difficulty in the management of the child. Now, 
however, as he observed her flashing eyes, and noticed the doubling 
of her little fist, as she menaced Nan with her future wrath, he 
had an undefined, half- formed presentiment of coming trouble in 
the control of his little charge; a feeling almost of alarm, lest he 
had undertaken what he could never perform. For the moment 
she ceased, in his eyes, to be the pet and plaything he had hith- 
erto considered her. He saw in her something which needed a 
cheek, and felt himself unfit to apply it. 

And no wonder. He was totally unfit to cope with a spirit 
like Gerty’s. It was true he possessed over her one mighty influ- 
ence, — her strong affection for him, which he could not doubt. 
It was that which made her so submissive and patient in her 
sickness, so grateful for his care and kindness, so anxious to do 
something in return. It was that deep love for her first friend, 
which, never wavering, and growing stronger to the last, proved, 
in after years, a noble motive for exertion, a worthy incentive to 
virtue. It was that love, fortified and illumined by a higher 
fight, which came in time to sanctify it, that gave her, while yet 
a mere girl, a woman’s courage, a woman’s strength of heart and 
self-denial. It was that which cheered the old man’s latter years, 
and shed joy on his (tying bed. 

Hut for the present it was not enough. The kindness she had 
received for the few weeks past had completely softened Gerty’s 
heart towai Is her bemfa ;tors ; but the effect of eight years’ mi& 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


47 


management, ill treatment, and want of all judicious discipline, 
could not be done away in that short time. Her unruly nature 
could not be so suddenly quelled, her better capabilities called 
into action. 

The plant that for years has been growing distorted, and 
dwelling in a barren spot, deprived of light and nourishment, 
withered in its leaves and blighted in its fruit, cannot at once 
recover from so cruel a blast. Transplanted to another soil, it 
must b« directed in the right course, nourished with care and 
warmed with Heaven’s light, ere it can recover from the shock 
occasioned by its early neglect, and find strength to expand its 
Bowers and ripen its fruit. 

So with little Gierty ; — a new direction must be given to her 
ideas, new nourishment to her mind, new light to her soul, ere the 
higher purposes for which she was created could be accomplished 
in her. 

Something of this True felt, and it troubled him. He did not, 
however, attempt to check the child. He did not know what to 
do, and so did nothing. 

Willie tried once or twice to stop the current of her abus ve 
language ; but soon desisted, for she did not pay the least at ;er 
tion to him. He could not help smiling at her childish wrath ; 
nor could he resist sympathizing with her in a degree, and almost 
wishing he could have a brush with Nan himself, and express his 
opinion of her character in one or two hard knocks. But he had 
been well brought up by his gentle mother, was conscious that 
Gerty was exhibiting a very hot temper, and began to understand 
what made everybody think her so bad. 

After Gerty had railed about Nan a little while, she stopped 
of her own accord ; though an unpleasant look remained on her 
countenance, one of her old looks, that it was a pity should 
return, but which always did when she got into a passion. It 
soon passed away, however, and when, a little later in the even- 
ing', Mrs. Sullivan appeared at the door, Gerty looked bright and 
happy, listened with evident delight while True uttered warm 
expressions of thanks for the labor which had been undertaken in 
his behalf, and when Willie went away with his mother, said her 


48 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


good-night and asked him to come again so pleasantly, and hei 
eyes looked so bright as she stood holding on to True’s hand id 
the doorway, that Willie said, as soon as they were out of hear- 
ing, “ She ’s a queer little thing, an’t she, mother ? But I kind 
o’ like her.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


Prayer is the burden of » sigh. 

The falling of a tear. 

The upward glancing of an eye. 

When none but God is near. 

Montgomei y 

It would have been hard to find two children, both belonging 
vO the poorer class, whose situations in life had, thus far, pre- 
sented a more complete contrast than those of Gerty and Willie. 
With Gerty ’s experiences the reader is somewhat acquainted. A 
ueglected orphan, she had received little of that care, and still 
less of that love, which Willie had always enjoyed. Mrs. Sulli- 
van’s husband was an intelligent country clergyman ; but, as he 
died when Willie was a baby, leaving very little property for the 
support of his family, the widow went home to her father taking 
her child with her. The old man needed his daughter ; for death 
had made sad inroads in his household since she left it, and he 
was alone. 

From that, time the three had lived together in humble com- 
fort ; for, though poor, industry and frugality secured them from 
want. Willie was his mother’s pride, her hope, her constant 
thought. She spared herself no toil or care to provide for his 
physical comfort, his happiness, and his growth in knowledge and 
virtue. 

It would have been strange enough if she had not been proud 
of a boy whose uncommon beauty, winning disposition, and early 
evidences of a manly and noble nature, won him friends even 
among strangers. He had been a handsome child ; but there wag 
that ooservable in him, now that he had nearly reached his thir- 
teenth year, far excelling the common boyish beauty, which con- 
sists merely ir curly hair, dark eyes and rosy cheeks. It was 
5 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


5t/ 

his broad, open forehead, the clearness and calmness of his fiiL 
gray eye, the expressive mouth, so determined and yet so mild, 
the well-developed figure and ruddy complexion, proclaiming high 
aealth, which gave promise of power to the future man. No one 
could have been in the boy’s company half an houi, without loving 
and admiring him. He had naturally a warm-hearted, affection- 
ate disposition, which his mother’s love and the world’s smiles had 
fostered ; an unusual flow of animal spirits, tempered by a natural 
politeness towards his elders and superiors ; a quick apprehen- 
sion ; a ready command of language ; a sincere sympathy in 
others’ pleasures and pains ; in fine, one of those genial natures, 
that wins hearts one knows not how. He was fond of study, and 
until his twelfth year his mother kept him constantly at school. 
The sons of poor parents have, in our large cities, almost every 
educational advantage that can be obtained by wealth ; and Willie, 
having an excellent capacity, and being constantly encouraged 
and exhorted by his mother to improve his opportunities to the 
utmost, had attained a degree of proficiency quite unusual at his 
age. 

When he was twelve years old he had an excellent opportunity 
to enter into the service of an apothecary, who did an extensive 
business in the city, and wanted a boy to assist in his store. The 
wages that Mr. Bray offered were not great, but there was the 
hope of an increased salary ; and, at any rate, situated as Willie 
was, it was not a chance to be overlooked. Fond as he was of 
his books, he had long been eager to be at work, helping to bear 
the burden of labor in the family. His mother and grandfather 
assented to the plan, and he gladly accepted Mr. Bray’s pro- 
posals. 

He was sadly missed at home ; for, as he slept at the store dur- 
ing the week* he rarely had much leisure to make even a passing 
visit to his mother, except on Saturday, when he came home at 
night and passed Sunday. So Saturday night was Mrs. Sullivan’s 
happy night, and the Sabbath became a more blessed day than 
ever. 

When Willie reached his mother’s room on the evening of 
which we have been speaking, he sat down with her and Mr 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


51 


Jooper, and for an hour conversation was brisk with them. 
Willie never came home that he had not a great deal to relate 
concerning the occurrences of the week ; many a little anecdote to 
.ell; many a circumstance connected with the shop, the customers, 
his master the apothecary, and his master’s family, with whom he 
took his meals. Mrs. Sullivan was interested in everything that 
interested Willie, and it was easy to see that the old grandfather 
was more entertained by the boy than he was willing to appear ; 
for, though he sat with his eyes upon the floor, and did not seem 
to listen he usually heard all that was said-, as was often proved 
afterwards by some accidental reference he would make to the 
subject. He seldom asked questions, and indeed it was not neces- 
sary, for Mrs. Sullivan asked enough for them both. He seldom 
made comments, but would occasionally utter an impatient or 
contemptuous expression regarding individuals or the world in 
general ; thereby evidencing that distrust of human nature, that 
want of confidence in men’s honesty and virtue, which formed, as 
we have said, a marked trait in the old man’s character. Willie’s 
spirits would then receive a momentary check ; for he loved and 
trusted everybody , and his grandfather’s words, and the tone in 
which they were spoken, were a damper to his young soul ; but, 
with the elasticity of youth and a gay heart, they would soon 
rebound, and he would go on as before. Willie did not fear his 
grandfather, who had never been severe to him , never having, in- 
deed, interfered at all with Mrs. Sullivan’s management ; but he 
sometimes felt chilled, though he hardly knew why, by his want 
of sympathy with his own warm-heartedness. On the present 
occasion, the conversation having turned at last upon True Flint 
and his adopted child, Mr. Cooper had been unusually bitter and 
satirical, and, as he took his lamp to go to bed, wound up with 
remarking that he knew very well Gerty would never be any- 
thing but a trouble to Flint, who was a fool not to send her to 
the alms-house at once. 

There was a pause after the old man left the room ; then Willie 
exclaimed, “ Mother, what makes grandfather hate folks ? ’ 

Why. he don’t, Willie.” 

* I don’t mean exactly haXe > — I don’t suppose he does tint, 


THE LAMP LIGHTER, 


b2 

quite , but he don’t seem to thin*c a great dea* of anybody — do 
you think he does ? ” 

“ 0, yes ; he don’t show it much,” said Mrs. Sullivan ; “ but he 
thinks a great deal of you, Willie, and he would n’t have any* 
thing happen to me for the world; and he likes Mr. Flint, and — ” 

“ 0, yes, I know that, of course; I don’t mean that; but he 
doesn’t think there ’s much goodness in folks, and he don’t 
»3em to think anybody ’s going to turn out well and — ” 

“ You’re thinking of what he said about little Gerty.” 

“Well, she an’ t the only one. That’s what made me speak 
of it now, but I’ve often noticed it before, particularly s ; nce I 
went away from home, and am only here once a week. Now, you 
know I think everything of Mr. Bray ; and when I was telling 
to-night how much good he did, and how kind he was to old Mrs. 
Morris and her sick daughter, grandfather looked just as if he 
didn’t believe it, or didn’t think much of it, somehow.” 

“ 0, well, Willie,” said Mrs. Sullivan, “you mustn’t wonder 
much at that. Grandpa ’s had a good many disappointments. 
You know he thought everything of Uncle Bichard, and there was 
no end to the trouble he had with him ; and there was Aunt 
Sarah’s husband — he seemed to be such a fine fellow when Sally 
married him, but he cheated father dreadfully at last, so that he 
had to mortgage his house in High-street, and finally give it up 
entirely. He ’s dead now, and I don’t want to say anything against 
him ; but he did n’t prove what we expected, and it broke Sally’s 
heart, I think. That was a dreadful trial to father, for she was 
the youngest, and had always been his pet. And, just after that, 
mother was taken down with her death-stroke, and there was a 
quack doctor prescribed for her, that father always thought did 
her more hurt than good. 0, take it altogether, he ’s had a 
great deal to make him look on A he dark side now; but you 
mustn’t mind it, Willie; you must take care and turn out well 
yourself, my son, and then he ’ll be proud enough : he ’s as pi eased 
as he can be when he hears you praised, and expects great things 
of you, one of these days.” 

Here the conversation ended ; but not until the boy had added 
another to the many resolves already made, that, if his Health 


the lamplighter. 


58 

and strength were spared, he would prove to his grandfather that 
hopes were n;jt always deceitful, and that fears were sometimes 
groundless. 

0 ! what a glorious thing it is for a youth when he has ever 
present with him a high, a noble, an unselfish motive ! What an 
incentive is it to exertion, pe?*severance and self-denial ! What a 
force to urge him on to ever-increasing efforts ! Fears that would 
otherwise appall, discouragements that would dishearten, labors 
that would weary, obstacles that would dismay, opposition that 
would crush, temptation that would overcome, all, all lie disarmed 
and powerless, when, with a single-hearted and worthy aim, ho 
struggles for the victory ! 

And so it is, that those born in honor, wealth and luxury, sel- 
dom achieve greatness. They were not born for labor ; and, 
without labor, nothing that is worth having can be won. Wiry 
will they not make it their great and absorbing motive (a worthy 
one it certain' y would be), to overcome the disadvantages of their 
position, and make themselves great, learned, wise and good, in 
spite of those riches, thdt honorable birth, that opportunity for 
luxurious sloth, which are, in reality, to the clear-judging eye of 
wise men and angels, their deadliest snare? A motive Willie 
had long had. His grandfather was old, his mother weak, and 
both poor. He must be the staff of their old age ; he must labor 
for their support and comfort ; he must do more ; — they hoped 
great things of him ; they must not be disappointed. He did not, 
however, while arming himself for future conflict with the world, 
forget the present, but sat down and learned his Sunday-school 
lessons. After which, according to custom, he read aloud in the 
Bible ; and then Mrs. Sullivan, laying her hand on the head of 
her son, offered up a simple, heart-felt prayer for the boy, — one 
of those mother’s prayers, which the child listens to with rev- 
erence and love^and remembers in the far-off years ; one of those 
prayers which keep men from temptation, and deliver tlrem from 
evil. 

After Willie went home that evening, and Gerty was left 
alone with True, she sat on a low stool beside him for some time, 
wiraout speaking. Her eyes were intently fixed upon the white 


54 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


tmagfr which lay in her lap ; that her little mind was very busy 
there could be no doubt, for thought was plainly written on hei 
face. True was not often the first to speak ; but, finding Gerty 
unusually quiet, he lifted up her chin, looked inquiringly in her 
fitce, and then said : 

Well, WiJie ’s a pretty clever sort of a boy, isn’t he ? ” 

Gerty answered, “Yes;” without, however, seeming to know 
what she was saying. 

“ You like him, don’t you ? ” said True. 

“ Very much,” said Gerty, in the same absent way. It was 
not Willie she was thinking of. True waited for Gerty to begin 
talking about her new acquaintance ; but she did not speak for a 
minute or two. Then looking up suddenly, she said : 

“ Uncle True ? ” 

“ What say ? ” 

“ What does Samuel pray to God for ? ” ' 

True stared. “ Samuel ! — pray ! — I guess I don’t know ex- 
actly what you ’re saying.” 

“ Why,” said Gerty, holding up the image, “ Willie says this 
little boy’s name is Samuel ; and that he sits on his knee, and 
puts his hands together so, and looks up, because he ’s praying to 
God, that lives up in the sky. I don’t know what he means, — 
way up in the sky, — do you ? ” 

True took the image and looked at it attentively ; he moved 
uneasily upon his chair, scratched his head, and finally said : 

“ Well, I s’pose he ’s about right. This ’ere child is prayin’, 
sartain, though I did n’t think on it afore. But I don’t jist know 
what he calls it a Samuel for. We ’ll ask him, some time.” 

“ Well, what does he pray for, Uncle True?” 

‘ 0 ! he prays to make him good ; it makes folks good tc pray 
ta God.” 

“ Can God make folks good ? ” 

'* Yes. God is very great ; he can do anything.” 

“ Iiow can he hear ? ” 

}S He hears everything and secs everything in the woi d.” 

“ And does he live in the sky ? '' 

u Yes 1 said True, in heaven.” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER, 


55 


Many more questions Gerty asked; many strange questions, 
that True could not answer , many questions that he wondered he 
had not oftener asked himself. True had a humble, loving heart, 
and a child-like faith ; he had enjoyed but little religious instruct 
don, but he earnestly endeavored to live up to the light he had. 
Perhaps, in his faithful practice of the Christian virtues, and es- 
pecially in his obedience to the great law of Christian charity, 
he more nearly approached to the spirit of his Divine Master 
than many who, by daily reading and study, are far more familiar 
with Christian doctrines. But he had never inquired deeply into 
the sources of that belief which it had never occurred to him to 
doubt ; and he was not at all prepared for the questions sug- 
gested by the inquisitive, keen and newly-excited mind of little 
Gerty. He answered her as well as he could, however ; and. 
where he was at fault, hesitated not to refer her to Willie, wno, 
he told her, went to Sunday-school, and knew a wonderful sight 
about such things. All the information that Gerty could gain 
amounted to the knowledge of these facts: that God was in 
heaven ; that his power was great ; and that people were made 
better by prayer. Her little eager brain was so intent upon the 
subject, however, that, as it grew late, the thought even of sleep- 
ing in her new room could not efface it from her mind. After 
she had gone to bed, with the white image hugged close to her 
bosom, and True had taken away the lamp, she lay for a long 
time with her eyes wide open. J ust at the foot of the bed was 
the window. Gerty could see out, as she had done before in her 
garret at Nan Grant’s ; but, the wdndow being larger, she had a 
much more extended view. The sky was bright with stars , and 
the sight of them revived her old wonder and curiosity as to the 
author of such distant and brilliant lights. Now, however, as 
she gazed, there darted through her mind the thought, ‘ God lit 
them ! 0, how great he must be ! But a zhild might pray to 

him ! ” She rose from her little bed, approached the window, 
and, falling on her knees and clasping her hands precisely ri the 
attitude of the little Samuel, she looked up to heaven. She 
ipoke no word, but her eyes glistened . with the dew of a tear 
that stood in each. Was not each tear a prayer ? She breathed 
no petition, but she longed for G od and virtue. W as no* that very 


56 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


wish a prayer ? Her little uplifted heart throbbed vehemently. 
Was not each throb a prayer? And did not God in heaven, 
without whom not a sparrow falls to the ground, hear and accept 
that first homage of a little, untaught child ; and did it not call 
a blessing down ? 

Many a petition did Gerty offer up in after years. In many a 
time of trouble did she come to God for help ; in many an houi 
of bitter sorrow did she from the same source seek comfort , and, 
when her strength and heart failed her, God became the strength 
of her heart. But never did she approach his throne with a 
purer offering, a more acceptable sacrifice, than when, in her first, 
deep penitence, her first earnest faith, her first enkindled hope, 
ghe took the attitude, and her heart uttered, though her lb*? pro- 
acunced them not, the words of the prophet-child, “ Her? \m I 
Lord 1 ’ 


CHAPTER VIII. 


” Revenge, at first though sweet. 

Bitter ere long back on itself recoils/' 

MlLTOMw 

Tbf 13 ex 3 day was Sunday. True was in the habit of gC*ng tc 
church half the day at least, with the sexton’s family ; but Gerty, 
having no bonnet, could not go, and True would not leave her. 
So they spent the morning together, wandering round among the 
wharves and looking at the ships, Gerty wearing her old shawl 
pinned over her head. In the afternoon, True fell asleep by the 
fireside, and Gerty played with the cat. 

Willie came in the evening ; but it was only to say good-by, 
before going back to Mr. Bray’s. He was in a hurry, and could 
not stop at all ; for his master had a sober household, and liked to 
have his doors closed early, especially Sunday night. Old Mr. 
Cooper, however, made his usual visit ; and, when he had gone, 
True, finding Gerty sound asleep on the settle, thought it a 
pity to wake her, and laid her in bed with her clothes on. 

She did not wake until morning; and then, much surprised and 
amused at finding herself dressed, sprung up and ran out to a«k 
True how it happened. True was busy making the fire ; and 
Gerty, having received satisfactory answers to her numerous in- 
quiries, — when and where she fell asleep, and how she came in 
bed, — applied herself earnestly to help in every possible way 
about getting the breakfast, and putting the room in order. She 
followed Mrs. Sullivan’s instructions, all of which she remem- 
bered, and showed a wonderful degree of capability in everything 
she undertook. In the course of the few following weeks, during 
which her perseverance held out surprisingly, she learned how to 
make herself useful in many ways, and, as Mrs. Sullivan had 


/ 


58 


THE LAMPUGHTER. 


prophesied, gave promise of becoming, one day, quite a cle^ei 
little housekeeper. Of course, the services she performed were 
trifling; but her active and willing feet saved True a great 
many steps, and shew as of essential aid in keeping the rooms 
neat, that being her especial ambition. She felt that Mrs. Sulli- 
van expected her, now that the dust and cobwebs were all cleared 
away, to take care that they should not accumulate again ; and 
it was quite an amusing sight, every day, when True had gone 
out as usual to fill and clean the street-lamps, to see the little 
girl diligently laboring with an old broom, the handle of which 
was cut short to make it more suitable for her use. Mrs. Sulli- 
van looked in occasionally, to praise and assist her ; and nothing 
made Gerty happier than learning how to do some new thing. She 
met with a few trials and discouragements, to be sure. In two 
or three instances the toast got burned to a cinder ; and, worse 
still, she one day broke a painted teacup, over which she shed 
many a tear; but, as True never thought of blaming her for any- 
thing, she forgot her misfortunes, and experience made her 
careful. 

Kate McCarty thought her the smartest child in the world, and 
would sometimes come in and wash up the floor, or do some other 
work, which required more strength or skill than Gerty possessed. 

Prompted by her ambition to equal Mrs. Sullivan’s expectations 
and still more by her desire to be useful to True, and in som; 
degree manifest her love to him by her labors, Gerty was usually 
patient, good-natured and obliging. So very indulgent was True* 
that he rarely indeed laid a command upon the child, leaving ’her 
to take her own course, and have her own way ; but, undisciplined 
as she was, she willingly yielded obedience to one who never 
thwarted her, and the old man seldom saw her exhibit in his 
presence that violent temper, which, when roused, knew no re- 
straint. She had little to irritate her in the quiet home she now 
enjoyed ; but instances sometimes occurred which proved that the 
fire of her little spii it was not quenched, or its evil propensities 
extinguished. 

One Sunday , Gerty, who had now a nice little hood which True 
aad bought for her, was returning with Mr. Cooper, Mr. Flint and 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 




Willie, from the afternoon service at church. The two old men 
were engaged in one of their lengthy discussions, and the children 
having fallen into the rear, had been talking earnestly about the 
church, the minister, the people and the music, al of which were 
new to Gerty, and greatly excited her wonder and astonishment. 

As they drew near home, Willie remarked how dark it was 
growing in the streets ; and then, looking down at Gerty, whom 
he held by the hand, he said, “ Gerty, do you ever go out with 
I incle True, and see him light the lamps ? ” 

“ No, I never did,” said Gerty, “ since the first night I came. 
1 Ve wanted to, but it ’s been so cold Uncle True would not let 
me ; he said I ’d just catch the fever again.” 

“ It won’t be cold this evening,” said Willie ; “ it ’ll be a 
beautiful night ; and, if Uncle True ’s willing, let ’s you and I go 
with him. I ’ve often been, and it ’s first rate ; you can look into 
the windows and see folks drinking tea, and sitting all round the- 
fire in the parlors.” 

“ And I like to see him light those great lamps,” interrupted 
Gerty ; “ they make it look so bright and beautiful all round. I 
hope he ’ll let us go ; I ’ll ask him ; come,” said she, pulling him 
by the hand ; “let ’s catch up with them and ask him now.” 

“No, — wait;” said Willie; “he’s busy talking with grand- 
pa : and we ’re almost home, — we can ask him then.” 

He could hardly restrain her impatience, however ; and, as soon 
as they reached the gate, she suddenly broke away from him, and, 
’ushing up to True, made known her request. The plan was wil- 
lingly acceded to, and the three soon started on the rounds. 

For some time Gerty’s attention was go wholly engrossed by the 
lamplighting that she could see and enjoy nothing else. But, 
when they reached the corner of the street, and came in sight of 
a large apothecary’s shop, her delight knew no bounds. The bril- 
liant colors displayed in the windows, now foi the first time seen 
by the evening light, completely captivated her fancy ; and when 
Willie told her that his master’s shop was very similar, she 
thought it must be a fine place to spend one’s life in. Then 
she wondered why this was open on Sunday, when all the other 
stores were closed ; anG Willie, stopping to explain the matter to 


THE LaMPIa^IITER. 


60 

her, and to gratify ner curiosity on many ot ler points, found, when 
they again started on their way, that True was some distance in 
advance of them. He hurried Gerty along, telling her that they 
were now in the finest street they should pass through, and that 
they must make haste, for they had nearly reached the house he 
most wanted her to see. When they came up with True, he 
was just placing his ladder against a post opposite a fine block oi 
buildings. Many of the front windows were shaded, so that the 
children could not see in ; some, however, either had no curtains, 
or they had not yet been drawn. In one parlor there was a. 
pleasant wood-fire, around which a group were gathered ; and here 
Gerty would fain have lingered. Again, in another, a brilliant 
jhandelier was lit, and though the room was vacant, the furniture 
was so showy, and the whole so brilliant, that the child clapped 
her hands in delight, and Willie could not prevail upon her vo 
leave the spot, until he told her that further down the street was 
another house, equally attractive, where ' she would perhaps see 
some beautiful children. 

“ How do you know there ’ll be children there 2 ” said she, as 
they walked along 

“ 1 don’t knew, certainly,” said Willie ; “ but I think there 
will. They used always to be up at the wirdow, when I came 
with Uncle True, last winter.” 

“ How many ? ” asked Gerty. 

“ Three, I believe ; there was one little girl with such beautiful 
curls, and such a sweet, cunning little face. She looked like a 
wax doll, only a great deal prettier.” 

“ 0, I hope we shall see her ! ” said Gerty, dancing along on 
the tops of her toes, so full was she of excitement and pleasure. 

“ There they are ! ” exclaimed Willie ; “all three, I declare, 
just as they ufeed to be ! ” 

“ Where ? ” said Gerty ; “ where i ” 

“ Over opposite, in the great stone house. Here, let ’s cross 
over. It ’s muddy ; I ’ll carry you.” 

Willie lifted Gerty carefully over the mud, and they stood ia 
frrot of ti e hoc™ True had not yet come up. It was he that <:he 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


t)l 

ciiildien were watching for. Gerty was not the r v:ly chill that 
ioved to see the lamps lit. 

It was now quite dark, so that persons in a light room could 
not see any one out of doors ; but Willie end Gerty had so 
much the better chance to look in. It was indeed a fine mansion 
evidently the home of wealth. A clear coal-fire, and a bright 
lamp in the centre of the room, shed abroad their cheerful blaze. 
Rich carpets, deeply-tinted curtains, pictures in gilded frames, 
and huge mirrors, reflecting the whole on every side, gave Gert* 
her first impressions of luxurious life. There was an air of comfor 
combined with all this elegance, which made it still more fascinat 
ing to the child of poverty and want. A table was bountifulh 
spread for tea ; the cloth of snow-white damask, the shining plate 
above all, the home-like hissing tea-kettle, had a most invitirg 
look. A gentleman in gay slippers was in an easy- chair by the 
Ore; a lady in a gay cap was superintending a servant-girl’s 
arrangements at the tea-table, and the children of the household, 
smiling and happy, were crowded together on a window-seat, look- 
ing out, as we have said. 

They were, as Willie had described them, sweet, lovely-looking 
little creatures ; especially a girl, about the same age as Gerty, the 
eldest of the three. Her fair hair fell in long ringlets over a neck 
as white ' as snow ; she had blue eyes, a cherub face, and a little 
round, plump figure. Gerty’s admiration and rapture were such 
that she could find no expression for them, except in jumping 
up and down, shouting, laughing, and directing Willie’s notice 
first to one thing and then another. 

“ 0, Willie ! is n’t she a darling ? and see what a beautiful 
fire, what a splendid lady ! And ’ook ! look at the father’s 
shoes ! What is that on the table ? I guess it ’s good ! There ’s 
a big looking-glass ; and 0, Willie ! an’t they dear little hand- 
some children ? ” 

In all her exclamations, she began and ended with her praises 
of the children. Willie was quite satisfied ; . Gerty was as much 
pleased as he had expected or wished. 

True now came up, and, as his torch-light swept along the side- 
walk. Gerty and Willie became, in their ton, the subjects of 
(i 


62 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


notice and conversation. The little curly-naired girl saw them 
and pointed them out to the notice of the other two Though 
Gerty could not know what they were saying, she did not like 
the idea of being stared at and talked about ; and, hiding behind 
the post, she would not move or look up, though Willie laughed 
at her, and told her it was now her turn to be looked at. When 
True took up his ladder, however, and started to move off, she 
commenced following him at a run, so as to escape observation ; 
but Willie calling to her, and saying that the children were gone 
from the window, she ran back as quickly to have one more look, 
and was just in time to see them taking their places at the tea-table. 
The next instant the servant-girl came and drew down the window- 
shades. Gerty then took Willie’s hand again, and they hastened 
on once more to overtake True. 

“ Should n’t you like to live in such a house as that, Gerty ? 
said Willie. 

“ Yes, indeed,” said Gerty ; “ an’t it splendid ? ” 

“ I wish I had just such a house,” said Willie. “ I mean to, 
one of these days.” 

“ Where will you get it ? ” exclaimed Gerty, much amazed at 
so bold a declaration. 

“ 0, I shall work, and grow rich, and buy it.' 

“ You can’t ; it would take a lot o’ money.” 

“ I know it ; but I can earn a lot, and I mean to. The gem 
tleman that lives in that grand house was a poor boy when he 
first came to Boston; and why can’t one poor boy get rich, as well 
as another ? ” 

“ How do you suppose he got so much money ? ” 

44 1 don’t know how }ie did ; there are a good many ^ays. 
Some people think it ’s all luck, but I guess it ’s as much smart* 
ness as anything.” 

“ Are you smart ? ” 

Willie laughed. “ An’t I?” said he. “If I don’t turn oui 
a rich man, one of these days, you may say I an’t.” 

“ I know what I I do, if I was rich,” said Gerty. 

“What?” asked Willie. 

1 First, 1 ’d buy a great, nice chair, for Uncle True with 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


G3 


enstno ns all in the inside, and bright flowers on it, — just exactly 
like that one the gentleman was sitting in ; and next, I ’d have 
^great big lamps, ever so many all in a bunch, so ’s to make the 
room as light — as light as it could be ! ” 

“ Seems tc me you ’re mighty fond of lights, Gerty said 
Willie. 

“ I be,” said the child. “ I hate old, dark, black places * 1 
like stars, and sunshine, and fires, and Uncle True’s torch — ” 

“ And I like bright eyes ! ” interrupted Willie ; “ yours look 
just like stars, they shine so to-night. An’t we having a good 
lime ? ” 

‘‘Yes, real.” 

And so they went on. Gerty jumping and dancing along the 
side- walk, Willie sharing in her gayety and joy, and glorying 
in the responsibility of entertaining and at the same time pro- 
tecting the wild little creature. They talked much of how they 
would spend that future wealth which, in their buoyant hopeful- 
ness, they both fully calculated upon one day possessing; for 
Gerty had caught Willie’s spirit, and she, too, meant to work and 
grow rich. Willie told Gerty of the many plans he had for sur- 
rounding his mother and grandfather, and even herself and Uncle 
True, with every comfort and luxury he had ever heard or dreamt 
of. Among other things, his mother was to wear a gay cap, like 
that of the lady they had seen through the window; and at this 
Gerty had a great laugh. She had an innate perception of the 
fact that the quiet, demure little widow would be ridiculous in 
a flowered head-gear. Good taste is inborn, and Gerty had it 
in her. She felt that Mrs. Sullivan, attired in anything that 
was not simple, neat and sober-looking, would altogether lose 
her identity. Willie had no selfish schemes ; the generous boy 
suggested nothing for his own gratification ; it was for the rest 
he meant to labor, and in and through them that he looked for 
his reward. Happy children ! happy as children only can be ! 
What do they want of wea’th ? What of anything material and 
tangible, more than they now possess? They have what is 
worth more than riches or fame. They are full of childhood’s 
faith and hope. With a fancy and imagination unchecked by 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


m 

disapj ointment, they are building those same castles that so man} 
thousand children have built before, — that children always will be 
building, to the end o c time. Far off in the distance, they see 
bright things, and knew not what myths they are. High up thev 
rise, and shine, and glitter ; and the little ones fix their eyes on 
then, overlook the rough, dark places that lie between, see not 
the perils of the way, suspect i>ot the gulfs and snares into which 
many are destined to fall ; but, confident of gaining the glorious 
goal, they set forth on the way rejoicing. Blessings on that 
childhood’s delusion, if such it be. Undeceive not the little 
believers, ye wise ones! Check not that God-given hopefulness 
which will, perhaps, in its airy flight, lift them in safety ovei 
many a rough spot in life’s road. It lasts not long, at the best 
then check it not, for as it dies out the way grows hard. 

One source of the light-heartedness that Willie and Gerty 
experienced undoubtedly lay in the disinterestedness and gener- 
osity of the emotion which occupied them ; for, in the plans they 
formed, neither seemed actuated by selfish motives. They were 
both tilled with the desire to contribute to the comfort of their 
more aged friends. It was a beautiful spirit of grateful love which 
each manifested, — a spirit in a great degree natural to both. In 
Willie, however, it had been so fostered by pious training that 
it partook of the nature of a principle; while in Gerty it was a 
uere impulse ; and, alas, for poor human nature, when swayed by 
its own passions alone ! The poor little girl had — as who has 
not ? — other less pleasing impulses ; and, if the former needed 
encouraging and strengthening, so did the latter require to be 
uprooted and destroyed. 

The} had reached the last lamp-post in the street, and now 
turned another corner ; but scarcely had they gone a dozen steps, 
before Gerty stopped short, and, positively refusing to proceed 
any further, pulled hard at Willie’s hand, and tried to induce 
him to retrace his steps. 

“ What ’s the matter, Gerty ? ” said he ; “ ai e you tired ? ” 

"No, 0 no ! but I can’t go any further.” 

* Why not ? ” 

' 0, because — because — ” and here Gerty lowered her voice. 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


63 

a. id, pn ttiug her mouth close to Willie’s ear, whispered, — ‘ there 
is Nan Grant’s; I see the house ! I had forgot Uncle True went 
there ; and I can’t go — I ’m afraid ! ” 

“ Oho ! ” said W liiie, drawing himself up with dignity, “ 1 
should like to know what you ’re afraid of, when I ’m with you ! 
Let her touch you, if she dares! And Uncle True, too! — I 
skmdd laugh.” Very kindly and pleasantly did Willie plead with 
the child, telling her that Nan would not be likely to see, them, 
but that pernaps they should see her ; and that was just what he 
wanted, — nothing he should like better. Gerty’s fears were 
easily allayed. She was not naturally timid ; it was only the 
suddenness of the shock she received, on recognizing her old home, 
that had revived, with full force, her dread and horror of Nan. 
It needed but little reasoning to assure her of the perfect safety 
of her present position ; and her fears soon gave place to the 
desire to point out to Willie her former persecutor. So, by the 
time they stood in front of the house, she was rather hoping, than 
otherwise, to catch sight of Nan. And never had any one a 

fairer chance to be looked at than Nan at that moment. She 

• 

was standing opposite the window, engaged in an animated 
dispute with one of her neighbors. Her countenance expressed 
angry excitement ; and, an ill-looking woman at best, her face 
now was so sufficient an index to her character, that no one could 
see her thus and afterwards question her right to the title of 
vixen, virago, scold, or anything else that conveys the same idea. 

“ Which is she ? ” said Willie ; “ the tall one, swinging the 
coffee-pot in her hand ? I guess she ’ll break the handle off, if 
she don’t look out.” 

“ Yes,” said Gerty, “ that’s Nan.” 

4 What ’s she doing ? ” 

“ O, she ’s fighting with Miss Birch ; she dees most alway 
with somebody. She don’t see us, does she ? ” 

“ No, she ’s too busy. Come, don’t let *s stop ; she ’s an ugly* 
looking woman, just as I knew she was I’ve seen enough of 
her, and I ’m sure you have, — come.” 

But Gerty lingered. Courageous in the knowledge that sh* 
was safe and unseen, she was attentively gazing at Nan, and hei 
6 * 


66 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


eyes glistened, not, as a few minutes before, with the healthy and 
innocent excitement of a cheerful heart, but with the fire of 
kindled passion, — a fire that Nan had kindled long ago, which 
had not yet gone out, and which the sight of Nan had now revived 
in full force. Willie, thinking it was time to be hurrying home, 
and perceiving once more that Mr. Flint and his torch were far 
down the street, now left Gerty, and started himself, as an expe- 
dient to draw her on, saying, at the same time, “ Come, Gerty I 
can’t wait.” 

Gerty turned, saw that he was going, then, quick as lightning, 
stooped, and, picking up a stone from the side-walk, flung it at 
the window. There was a crash of broken glass, and an exclam 
ation in Nan’s well-known voice ; but Gerty was not there to 
see the result of her work. The instant the stone had left her 
hand, and she heard the crash, her fears all returned, and, ftying 
past Willie, she paused not until she was safe by the side of True. 
Willie did not overtake them until they were nearly home, and 
then came running up, exclaiming, breathlessly, “ Why, Gerty, do 
you know what you did ? — You broke the window I ” 

Gerty jerked her shoulders from side to side to avoid Willie, 
pouted, and declared that was what she meant to do. 

True now inquired what window ; and Gerty unhesitatingly 
acknowledged what she had done, and avowed that she did it on 
purpose. True and Willie were shocked and, silent. Gerty was 
silent, too, for the rest of the walk ; there were clouds on her face, 
and she felt unhappy in her little heart. She did not understand 
herself, or her own sensations : we may not say how far she was 
responsible for them, but this much is certain, her face alone 
betrayed that, as evil took violent possession of her soul, peace 
and pleasantness fled away. Poor child ! how much she needs to 
learn the truth ! God grant that the inward may one day become 
as dear to her as now the outward light ! 

Willie bade them good-night at the house-door, and, as usual 
they saw no more of him for a week. 


CHAPTER IX. 


Jut f. sace ! I must not quarrel with the will 
Of highest dispensation, which herein 
Haply had ends above my reach to know. 

Milton 

14 Fatiief,” said Mrs. Sullivan, one afternoon, as he was prepar- 
ing to go out and to take with him a number of articles which he 
wanted for his Saturday’s work in the church, “ why don't you 
get little Gerty to go with you, and carry some of your things 1 
You can’t take them all at once ; and she ’d like to go, I know.” 

“ She ’d only be in the way,” said Mr. Cooper ; “ I can take 
them myself.” 

But when he had swung a lantern and an empty coal-hod on 
one arm, taken a little hatchet and a basket of kindlings in his 
hand, and hoisted a small ladder over his shoulder, he was fain to 
acknowledge that there was no accommodation for his hammer 
and a large paper of nails. 

So Mrs. Sullivan called Gerty, and asked her to go to the 
church with Mr. Cooper, and help him carry his tools. 

Gerty was very much pleased with the proposal, and, taking 
the hammer and nails, started off with great alacrity. 

When they reached the church, the old sexton took them from 
her hands, and, telling her she could play about until he went 
home, but to be sure and do no mischief, left her and went down 
into the vestry-room to commence there his operation of sweeping, 
dusting, and building fires. Gerty was thus left to her own 
amusement ; and ample amusement she found it, for some time, to 
wander round among the empty aisles and pews, and examine 
elosely what, hitherto, she had only viewed from a corner of the 
gallery. Then she ascended the pulpit, and in imagination 


68 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


addressed a large audience. She was just beginning fco grou 
weary and restless, however, when the organist, who had entered 
unperceived, commenced playing some low, sweet music; ana 
Gerty, seating herself on the pulpit-stairs, listened with the 
greatest attention and pleasure. He had not played long before 
the door at the foot of the broad aisle opened, and a couple of 
visitors entered, in observing whom Gerty was soon wholly en- 
grossed. One was an elderly man, dressed like a clergyman, 
short and spare, with hair thin and gray, forehead high, and feat- 
ures rather sharp ; but, though a plain man, remarkable for his 
calm and benignant expression of countenance. A young lady, 
apparently about twenty-five years of age, was leaning on his 
arm. She was attired with great simplicity, wearing a dark-brown 
cloak, and a bonnet of the same color, relieved by some light-blue 
ribbon about the face. The only article of her dress which was 
either rich or elegant was some beautiful dark fur, fastened at her 
throat with a costly enamelled slide. She was somewhat below 
the middle size, but had a pleasing and well-rounded figure. Her 
matures were small and regular ; her complexion clear, though 
rather pale ; and her light-brown hair was most neatly and care- 
fully arranged. She never lifted her eyes as she walked slowly 
up the aisle, and the long lashes nearly swept her cheek. 

The two approached the spot where Gerty sat, but without 
perceiving her. “ I am glad you like the organ,” said the gentle- 
man ; “ I ’m not much of a judge of music, myself, but they say 
it is a superior instrument, and that Hermann plays it remarkah 1 / 
well.” 

“ Nor is my opinion of any value,” said the lady ; “ for I 'nave 
very little knowledge of music, much as I love it. But that sym- 
phony sounds very delightful to me ; it is a long time siive I have 
heard such touching strains ; or, it may be, it is partly owing to 
their striking so sweetly on the solemn quiet of the church, this 
afternoon. I love to go into a large church on a week-day. It 
was very kind in you to call for me this afternoon. How came 
yoTi to think of it ? ” 

“ I thought you would enjoy it, my dear. I knew Hermann 
would be playing about this time ; and, besides, when I saw hove 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


6 $ 


pale you vr ere looking, it seemed to me the walk would do j 012 

good.” 

4 It has done me good. I was not feeling well, and the cleai 
cold air was just what I needed ; I knew it would refresn me * 
but Mrs. Ellis was busy, and I could not, you know, go out alone.” 

“I thought I should find Mr. Cooper, the sexton, here,” said 
the gentleman. “ I want to speak to him about the light ; the 
afternoons are so short now, and it grows dark so early, I must 
ask him to open more of the blinds, or I cannot see to read my 
sermon to-morrow. Perhaps he is in the vestry-room ; he is 
always somewhere about here on Saturday ; I think I had better 
go and look for him.” 

Just then Mr. Cooper entered the church, and, seeing the cler- 
gyman, came up, and, after receiving his directions about the 
light, seemed to request him to accompany him somewhere ; for 
the gentleman hesitated, glanced at the young lady, and then 
said, “ I suppose I ought to go to-day ; and, as you say you are 
at leisure, it is a pity I should not ; but I don’t know — ” 

Then, turning to the lady, he said, “ Emily, Mr. Cooper wants 
me to go to Mrs. Glass’ with him ; and I suppose I should have 
to be absent some time. Do you think you should mind waiting 
here until I return ? She lives in the next street ; but I may be 
detained for it ’s about that matter of the library-books being 
so mischievously defaced, and I am very much afraid that oldest 
boy of hers had something to do with it. It ought to be inquired 
into before to-morrow, and I can hardly walk so far as this again 
to-night, or I would not think of leaving you.” 

“ 0 ! go, by all means,” said Emily ; “ don’t mind me ; it will 
be a pleasure to sit here and listen to the music. Mr. He rmann’s 
p ayiug is a great treat to me, and I don’t care how long I wait ; 
Bf I beg you won’t hurry on my account, Mr. Arnold.” 

Thus assured, Mr. Arnold concluded to go ; and, having firsi 
ted the lady to a chair beneath the pulpit, went away with Mr, 
Cooper. 

All his time Gerty had been quite unnoticed, and had re- 
ained \ ery quiet on the upper stair, a little secured from sight 
1 the rulpit. Hardly had the doors closed, however, with a 


70 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


loud ba> g, when the child got up, and began to descend the stairs 
The moment she moved, the lady, whose seat was very near 
start 3 d, and exclaimed, rather suddenly, “ Who ’3 that ? ” 

Gsrty stood quite still, and made no reply. Strangely enough 
the lady did not look up, though she must have perceived that the 
movement was above her head. There was a momert’s pause 
and then Gerty began again to run down the stairs. This time 
the lady sprung up, and, stretching out her hand, said, as quickly 
as before, “ Who is it ? ” 

“ Me,” said Gerty, looking up in the lady’s face ; “ it ’s only me.” 
“ Will you stop and speak to me ? ” said the lady. 

Gerty not only stopped, but came close up to Emily’s chair, 
irresistibly attracted by the music of the sweetest voice she had 
ever heard. The lady placed her hand on Gerty’s head, drew 
her towards her, and said, “ Who are you ? ” 

“ Gerty.” 

“ Gerty who ? ” 

“Nothing else but Gerty.” 

“ Have you forgotten your other name ? ” 

“ I have n’t got any other name.” 

4 How came you here ? ” 

“ I came with Mr. Cooper, to help him bring his things.” 

“ And he ’s left you here to wait for him, and I ’m left too ; go 
we must take care of each other, must n’t we ? ” 

Gerty laughed at this. 

“ Where were you ? — On the stairs ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Suppose you sit down on this step by my chair, and talk with 
me a little while ; I want to see if we can’t find out what youi 
Other name is. Where do you say you live ? ” 

“ With Uncle True.” 

“ True ? ” 

“Yes. Mr. True Flint, I live with now. He took me home 
to his house, one night, when Nan Grant put me out on the side- 
walk.” 

“ Why ! are you that little girl ? Then I ’ve heard of y on 
before. Mr. Flint told me all about you.” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


7 ' 


Do you know my Uncle True ? ” 

A Yes, very well.” 

“ What ’s your name ? ” 

My name is Emily Graham.” 

“Oil know,” said Gerty, springing suddenly up, and cJaj 
ping her hands together ; “ I know. You asked him to keep me 
he said so, — I heard him say so ; and you gave me my clothe* 
and you ’re beautiful ; and you ’re good ; and I love you ! O 
I love you ever so much ! ” 

As Gerty spoke with a voice full of excitement, a strange 10 c* 
passed over Miss Graham’s face, a most inquiring and restlef* 
look, as if the tones of the voice had vibrated on a chord of he* 
memory. She did not speak, but, passing her arm round the 
child’s waist, drew her closer to her. As the peculiar expression 
passed away from her face, and her features assumed their usua 
calm composure, Gerty, as she gazed at her with a look of won- 
der (a look which the child had worn during the whole of the con- 
versation), exclaimed, at last, “ Are you going to sleep ? ” 

“ No. — Why? ” 

“ Because your eyes are shut.’ 

“ They are always shut, my child.” 

1 Always shut ! — What for ? ” 

“ I am blind, Gerty ; I can see nothing.” 

“ Not see ! ’’ said Gerty ; “ can’t you see anything? Can’t yon 
see me now ? ” 

“ No,” said Miss Graham. 

“ 0 ! ” exclaimed Gerty, drawing a long breath, “I'm so 
glad.” 

“ Glad ! ” said Miss Graham, in the saddest voice that ever w&a 
heard. 

“ 0, yes ! ’ said Gerty, “ so glad you can’t see me ! — because 
now, perhaps, you ’ll love me.” 

“ And should n’t I love you if I saw you ? ” said Emily, pass- 
ing her hand softly and slowly over the child’s features. 

“ O, no ! ” answered Gerty ; “I’m sc ugly ! I ’m glad you 
can’t see how ugly I am.” 

But just think, Gerty,” said Emily, in the same sad voice 


72 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


“ how would you feel if you could not see the light, could not sec 
anything in the world ? ” 

“ Can’t you see the sun, and the stars, and the sky, and th 
church we ’re in ? Are you in the dark ? ” 

“ In the dark, all the time, day and night in the dark.” 

Gerty burst into a paroxysm of tears. “ O ! ” e'xclaimed she. 
as soon as she could find voice amid her sobs, “ it ’s too bad ! it ’g 
too bad ! ” 

The child’s grief was contagious ; and, for the first time for 
years, Emily wept bitterly for her blindness. 

It was for but a few moments, however. Quickly recovering 
herself, she tried to compose the child also, saying, “ Hush ! hush ! 
don’t cry ; and don’t say it ’s too bad ! It ’s not too bad ; I can 
bear it very well. I ’m used to it, and am quite happy.” 

“ I should n’t be happy in the dark ; I should hate to be ! ” 
said Gerty. “ I an't glad you ’re blind ; I ’m real sorry. 1 wish 
you could see me and everything. Can’t your eyes be opened, 
any way ? ” 

“ No,” said Emily, “ never ; but we won’t talk about that any 
more ; we ’ll talk about you. I want to know what makes you 
think yourself so very ugly.” 

“ Because folks say that I ’m an ugly child, and that nobody 
loves ugly children.” 

“ Yes, people do,” said Emily, “ love ugly children, if they are 
good.” 

“ But I an’t good,” said Gerty ; “ I ’m real bad ! ” 

“ But you can be good” said Emily, “ and then everybody will 
love you.” 

“ Do you think I can be good ? ” 

“ Yes, if you try.” 

“ I will try.” 

“ I hope you will,” said Emily. “ Mr Flint thinks a great 
deal of his little girl, and she must do all she can to please him.” 

She then went on to make inquiries concerning Gerty’s former 
way of life, and became so much interested in the recital of the 
little girl’s early sorrows and trials, that she was unconscious of 
the flight of time, and quite unobservant of the departure of the 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


73 


organist, who had ceased playing, closed his instrument; and gone 
away. 

Gerty was very communicative. Always a little shy of stran- 
gers at first, she was nevertheless easily won by kind words ; and, 
in the present case, the sweet voice and sympathetic tones of 
Emily went straight to her heart. Singularly enough, though 
her whole life had been passed among the poorer, and almost the 
whole of it among the lowest class of people, she seemed to feel 
none of that awe and constraint which might be supposed natural, 
on her encountering, for the first time, one who, born and bred 
amid affluence and luxury, showed herself, in every word and 
motion, a lady of polished mind and manners. On the contrary, 
G-erty clung to Emily as affectionately, and stroked her soft boa 
with as much freedom, as if she had herself been born in a pal- 
ace, and cradled in sable fur. Once or twice she took Emily’s 
nicely-gloved hand between both her own, and held it tight ; her 
favorite mode of expressing her enthusiastic warmth of gratitude 
and admiration. The excitable but interesting child took no less 
strong a hold upon Miss Graham’s feelings. The latter saw at 
once h ,w totally neglected the little one had been, and the im- 
portance of her being educated and trained' with care, lest early 
abuse, acting upon an impetuous disposition, should prove destruc- 
tive to a nature capable of the best attainments. The two were 
still entertaining each other, and, as we have said, unconscious of 
the lateness of the hour, when Mr. Arnold entered the church 
hastily, and somewhat out of breath. As he came up the aisle, 
when he was yet some way off he called to Emily, saying,- 
“ Emily, dear, I ’m afraid you thought I had forgotten you, I 
have been gone so much longer than I intended. Were you no! 
quite tired and discouraged ? ” 

“ Have you been gene long ? ” replied Emily. “ I thought it 
was but a very little while ; I have had company, you see.” 

“What, little folks!” said Mr. Arnold, good-naturedly 
4 Where did this little body come from ? ’ 9 

44 She came to the chur ;h this afternoon, with Mr. Cooper. 
Is n’t he here for her ? ” 

7 


<4 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


“ Cooper ? — No : he went straight home, after he left me ; he i 
probably forgotten all about the child. What’s to be done V' 

“ Can’t we take her home ? Is it far ? ” 

“ It is two or three streets from here, and directly out of our 
way ; altogether too far for you to walk.” 

“ 0 no, it won’t tire me ; I’m quite strong now, and I would n’t 
out know she was safe home, on any account. I ’d rather get a 
tittle fatigued.” 

If Emily could but have seen Gerty’s grateful face that mo- 
ment, she would indeed have felt repayed for almost any amouit 
of weariness. 

So they went borne with Gerty, and Emily kissed Gerty at the 
pite ; and Gerty was a happy child that night. 


CHAPTER X. 


By the strong spirit’s discipline. 

By the fierce wrong forgiven. 

By all that wrings the heart of sin. 

Is woman won to Heaven. 

N. P. Willis. 

As may be supposed, the blind girl did not forget our little 
Gerty. Emily Graham never forgot the sufferings, {he wants, 
the necessities, of others. She could not see the world without, 
but there was a world of love and sympathy within her, which 
manifested itself in abundant benevolence and charity, both of 
heart and deed. She lived a life of love. She loved God with 
her whole heart, and her neighbor as herself. Her own great 
misfortunes and trials could not be helped, and were borne with- 
out repining ; but the misfortunes and trials of others became 
her care, the alleviation of them her greatest delight. Emily 
was never weary of doing good. Many a blessing was called 
down upon her head, by young and old, for kindness past; many 
a call was made upon her for further aid ; and to the call of none 
was she ever deaf. But never had she been so touched as now 
by any tale of sorrow. Beady listener, as she was, to the story 
of grief and trouble, she knew how many children were born into 
the world amid poverty and privation ; how many were abused, 
neglected and forsaken ; so that Gerty’s experience was not new 
to her. But it was something in the child herself tnat ex- 
cited and interested Emily in an unwonted degree. The tones of 
her voice, the earnestness and pathos with which she spoke, the 
confiding and affectionate manner in which she had clung to her 
fche sudden clasping of her hand, and, finally, her vehement out 
break of ^rief' when she became conscious of Emily’s great mis 


76 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


fortune, — all these things so haunted Miss Graham’s recollection, 
that she dreamt of the child at night, and thought much of her 
by day. She could not account to herself for the interest she 
felt in the little stranger ; but the impulse to see and know more 
of her was irresistible, and, sending for True, she talked a long 
time with him about the child. 

True was highly gratified by Miss Graham’s account of the 
meeting in the church, and of the interest the little girl had in- 
spired in one for whom he felt the greatest admiration and respect. 
Gerty had previously told him how she had seen Miss Graham 
and had spoken in the most glowing terms of the dear lady, who 
was so kind to her, and brought her home when Mr. Cooper had 
forgotten her, but it had not occurred to the old man that the 
fancy was mutual. 

Emily asked him if he did n’t intend to send her to school. 

“Well, I don’t know,” said he; “she’s a little thing, and 
an’t much used to being with other children. Besides, I don’t 
exactly like to spare her; I like to see her round.” 

Emily suggested that it was time she was learning to read and 
write ; and that the sooner she went among other children, the 
* easier it would be to her. 

“ Very true, Miss Emily, very true,” said Mr. Flint. “ 1 
dare say you ’re right ; and, if you think she ’d better go, I ’ll ask 
her, and see what she says.” 

“ I would, ” said Emily. “ I think she might enjoy it, besides 
improving very much ; and, about her clothes, if there ’s any 
deficiency, I ’ll — ” 

“ 0, no, no, Miss Emily !” interrupted True ; “ there ’s n„ 
necessity ; she ’s very well on ’t now, thanks to your kindness.” 

“ Well,” said Emily, “ if she should have any wants, you must 
apply to me. You know we adopted her jointly, and I agreed 
to do anything I could for her ; so you must never hesitate, — it 
will be a pleasure to serve either of you. Father always feels 
under obligations to you. Mr. Flint, for faithful service, that cost 
you dear in the end.” 

* O, Miss Emily,” said True, “ Mr. Graham has always been 
my best friend ; and as to that ’ere accident that happened when 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


77 


l was in his employ, it was nobody’s fault but my own ; it was 
my own carelessness, and nobody’s else.” 

“ I know you say so,” said Emily, “ but we regrettecl it very 
much ; and you must n’t forget what I veil you, that I shall delight 
in doing anything for Gerty. I should like to have her come and 
see me, some day, if she would like to, and you ’ll let her.” 

“ Sartain, sartain,” said True, “ and thank you kindly ; she 
admire to come.” 

A few days after, Gerty went with True to see Miss Graham ; 
but the housekeeper, whom they met in the hall, told them that 
she was ill and could see no one. So tViey went away full of dis- 
appointment and regret. 

It proved afterwards that Emily took a severe cold the day 
she sat so long in the church, and was suffering with it when they 
called ; but, though confined to her room, she would have been 
glad to have a visit from Gerty, and was sorry and grieved that 
Mrs. Ellis should have sent them away so abruptly. 

One Saturday evening, when Willie was present, True broached 
the subject of Gerty’s going to school. Gerty herself was very 
much disgusted with the idea ; but it met with Willie’s warm ap- 
probation, and when Gerty learned that Miss Graham also wished 
it, she consented, though rather reluctantly, to begin the next 
week, and try how she liked it. So, on the following Monday, 
Gerty accompanied True to one of the primary schools, was ad- 
mitted, and her education commenced. When Willie came home 
the next Saturday, he rushed into True’s room, full of eagerness 
to hear how Gerty liked going to school. He found her seated at 
the table, with her spelling-book ; and, as soon as he entered, she 
exclaimed, “ 0, Willie ! Willie ! come and hear me read ! ,f 

Her performance could not properly be called reading. She 
had not got beyond the alphabet, and a few syllables which she 
had learned to spell; but Willie bestowed upon her much well- 
merited praise, for she had really been very diligent. He was 
astonished to hear that Gerty liked going to school, lixed the 
teacher and the scholars, and had a fine time at recess. He had 
fully expected that she would dislike the whole business, and very 
probably go into tantrums about it, — which was the expressioc 
7 * 


78 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


no used to denote her fits of ill-temper. On the contrary every 
thing, thus far, had gone well, and Gerty had never locked sc 
animated and happy as she did this evening. Willie promised to 
assist her in her studies ; and the two children’s literary plans 
soon became as high-flown as if one had been a poet-laureate 
and the other a philosopher. 

For two or three weeks all appeared to go on smoothly. Gerty 
went regularly to school, and continued to make rapid progress. 
Every Saturday Willie heard her read and spell, assisted, praised 
and encouraged her. He had, however, a shrewd suspicion that, 
on one or two occasions, she had come near having a brush with 
some large girls, for whom she began to show symptoms of dislike. 
Whatever the difficulty originated in, it soon reached a crisis. 

One day, when the children were assembled in the school- 
yard, during recess, Gerty caught sight of True in his working- 
dress, just passing down the street, with his ladder and lamp- 
filler. Shouting and laughing, she bounded out of the yard, 
pursued and overtook him. She came back in a few minutes 
seeming much delighted at the unexpected rencounter, and ran 
into the yard out of breath, and full of happy excitement. The 
troop of large girls, whom Gerty had already, had some reason to 
distrust, had been observing her, and, as soon as she returned, one 
of them called out, saying, 

“ Who ’s that man ? ” 

“ That ’s my Uncle True,” said Gerty. 

“ Your what ? ” 

“ My uncle, Mr. Flint, that I live with.” 

“ So you belong to him, do you ? ” sai- J.ie girl, in an insolent 
tone of voice. “ Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 

“ What ^re you laughing at ? ” said Gerty, fiercely. 

“ Ugh ! Before I ’d live with him ! ” said the girl, “ old 
Smutty ! ” 

The others caught it tip, and the laugh and epithet Old Smutty 
circulated freely in the corner of the yard where Gerty was 
standing. 

Geity was furious. Her eyes glistened, she doubled her little 
1st, and, without hesitation, came down in battle upon the crowd 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


79 

Hut they were to! many for her, and, helpless as she was with 
passion, they drove her out of the yard. She started for home on 
a full run, screaming with alkher might. 

As she flaw along the side- walk, she brushed roughly against a 
tali and rather stiff-looking lady, who was walking slowly in the 
same direction, with another and much smaller person leaning on 
her arm. 

“ Bless me ! ” said the tall lady, who had almost lost her equi- 
librium from her fright and the suddenness of the shock. “ Why, 
you horrid little creature ! ” As she spoke, she grasped Gerty ty 
the shoulder, and, before the child could break away, succeeded in 
giving her a slight shake. This served to increase Gerty’s anger, and, 
her speed gaining in proportion, it was but a few minutes before 
she was at home, crouched in a corner of True’s room behind the 
bed, her face to the wall, and, as usual, on such occasions, covered 
with both her hands. Here she was free to cry as loud as she 
pleased ; for Mrs. Sullivan was gone out, and there was no one in 
the house to hear her, — a privilege, indeed, of which she fully 
availed herself. 

But she had not had time to indulge long in her tantrum, when 
the gate at the end of the yard closed with a bang, and footsteps 
were heard coming towards Mr. Flint’s door. Gerty’s attention 
was arrested, for she knew by the sound that it was the step of a 
stranger who was approaching. With a strong effort, she suc- 
ceeded, after one or two convulsive sobs, in so far controlling her 
self as to keep quiet. There was a knock at the door, but Gerty 
did not reply to it, remaining in her position concealed behind the 
ned. The knock was not repeated, but the stranger lifted the 
latch and walked in. 

There does n’t seem to be any one at home,” said a female 
voice , “ what a pity ! ” 

“ Is n’t there ? I’m sorry,” replied another, in the sweet 
musical tones of Miss Graham. 

Gerty knew the voice, at once. 

“ I thought you ’d better not come here yourself,” rejoined the 
first speaker, who was no other than Mrs. Ellis, the identical lady 
whcrn Ge ty had so frightened and disoncerted. 


80 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


“ 0, I don't regret coming,” said Emily “ You can 
liere while you go to your sister’s, and very 'ikely Mr. Emu 
the little girl will come home in the mean time.” 

“ It don’t become you, Miss Emily, to be carried round every- 
where, and left, like an expressman’s parcel, till called for. You 
caught a horrid cold, that you ’re hardly well of now, waiting 
there in the church for the minister ; and Mr. Graham will be 
finding fault next.” 

“ 0, no, Mrs. Ellis ; it ’s very comfortable here ; the church 
must have been damp, I think. Come, put me in Mr. Flint’s 
arm-chair, and I can make myself quite contented.” 

“ Well, at any rate,” said Mrs. Ellis, “ I ’ll makeup a good fire 
m this stove before 1 go.” 

As she spoke, the energetic housekeeper seized the poker, and, 
after stirring up the coals, and making free with all True’s kin- 
dling-wood, waited long enough to hear the roaring and see the 
blaze ; and then, having laid aside Emily’s cloak and boa, went 
away with the same firm, steady step with which she had come, 
and which had so overpowered Emily’s noiseless tread, that Gerty 
had only anticipated the arrival of a single guest. As soon as 
Gerty knew, by the swinging of the gate, that Mrs. Ellis had 
really departed, she suspended her effort at self-control, and, with 
a deep-drawn sigh, gasped out, “ 0, dear ! 0, dear ! ” 

“ Why, Gerty ! ” exclaimed Emily, “ is that you ? ” 

“ Yes,” sobbed Gerty. 

“ Come here.” 

The child waited no second bidding, but, starting up, ran, 
threw herself on the floor by the side of Emily, buried her face in 
the blind girl’s lap, and once more commenced crying aloud. By 
this time her whole frame was trembling with agitation. 

“ Why, Gerty ! ” said Emily ; “ what is the matter ? ” 

But Gerty could not reply ; and Emily, finding this to be the 
case, desisted from her inquiries until the little one should be 
somewhat composed. She lifted Gerty up into her lap, laid her 
head upon her shoulder, and with her own handkerchief wiped the 
tears from her face. 

Uer soothing words and caresses soon quieted the child ; and 


TH1 LAM /LIGHTER. 


81 


when she was oa n, Emily, instead of recurring at once to the 
cause of her grief, very judiciously questioned her upon other 
topics. At last, however, she asked her if she went to school. 

“ I have been” said Gerty, raising her head suddenly from 
Emily’s shoulder ; “ but I won’t ever go again ! ” 

“ What ! — Why not ? ” 

“ Because,” said Gerty, angrily, “ I hate those girls ; yes, 1 
Late ’em ! ugly things ! ” 

“ Gerty,” said Emily, “ don’t say that ; you should n’t hate 
anybody.” 

“ Why should n’t I ? ” said Gerty. 

“ Because it ’s wrong.” 

“ No, it ’s not wrong ; I say it is n't ! ” said Gerty ; “ and I do 
hate ’em ; and I hate Nan Grant, and I always shall ! Don’t you 
hate anybody ? ” 

“ No,” answered Emily ; “ I don't” 

“ Did anybody ever drown your kitten ? Did anybody ever 
call your father Old Smutty ? ” said Gerty. “ If they had, I know 
you ’d hate ’em, just as I do.” 

“ Gerty,” said Emily, solemnly, “ did n’t you tell me, the other 
day, that you were a naughty child, but that you wished to be 
good, and would try ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Gerty. 

“ If you wish to become good and be forgiven, you must for- 
give others.” 

Gerty said nothing. 

“ Do you not wish God to forgive and love you ? ” 

“ God, that lives in heaven, — that made the stars ?” said Gerty 
“ Yes.” 

“ Will he love ire, and let me some time go to heaven ? ” 

“Yes, if you try to be good, and love everybody.” 

“ Miss Emily,” said Gerty, after a moment’s pause, “ I can 
dc it, — so I s’pose I can’t go.” 

Just at this moiaent a tear fell upon Gerty’s forehead. She 
looked thoughtfully up in Emily’s face, then said, 

“ Dear Miss Emily, ai e you going ? ” 

“ I am trying to ” 


82 


CHE LAMPLIGHTEF 


“ 1 should lihi to gv. ith you,” said Gerfcy, shaking her head 
meditatively. 

Still Emily did not s^>, ak. She left the child to the working 
of her own thoughts. 

“ Miss Emily,” said Gerty, at last, in the lowest whisper, “ I 
menn to try , but I don’t think I can” 

“ God bless 3 du, and help you, my child ! ” said Emily, laying 
her hand upon Gerty’s head. 

For fifteen minutes, or more, not a word was spoken by either. 
Gerty lay perfectly still in Emily’s lap. By and by the latter 
perceived, by the child’s breathing, that, worn out with the fever 
and excitement of all she had gone through, she had dropped into 
a quiet sleep. When Mrs. Ellis returned, Emily pointed to the 
sleeping child, and asked her to place her on the bed. She did 
so, wonderingly ; and then, turning to Emily, exclaimed, “ Upon 
my word, Miss Emily, that ’s the same rude, bawling little creat- 
ure, that came so near being the death of us ! ” Emily smiled 
at the idea of a child eight years old overthrowing and anni- 
hilating a woman of Mrs. Ellis’ inches, but said nothing. 

Why did Emily weep long that night, as she recalled the scene 
of the morning? Why did she, on bended knee, wrestle so 
vehemently with a mighty sorrow ? Why did she pray so ear- 
nestly for new strength and heavenly aid ? Why did she so 
beseechingly ask of God his blessing on the little child ? Because 
she had felt, in many a year of darkness and bereavement, in 
many an hour of fearful struggle, in many a pang of despair, 
how a temper like that which Gerty had this day shown might, 
in one moment of its fearful reign, cast a blight upon a lifetime, 
and write in fearful lines the mournful requiem of earthly joy. 
And so she prayed to Heaven that night for strength to keep her 
firm resolve, and aid in fulfilling her undying purpose, to curs 
that child >i her dark infirmity. 


CHAPTER XI. 


Her inluence breathes, and bids the blighted heart 

To life and hope from desolation start. B«*ANg. 

The next Sabbath afternoon found Gerty seated on a cricket 
in front of a pleasant little wood-fire in Emily’s own room. Hei 
large eyes were fixed upon Emily’s face, which always seemed, in 
some unaccountable way, to fascinate the little girl ; so attem 
lively did she watch the play of the features in a countenance 
the charm of which many an older person than Gerty had felt, 
but tried in vain to describe. It was not beauty, — at least, not 
brilliant beauty, — for that Emily had not possessed, even when 
her face was illumined, as it had once been, by beautiful hazel 
eyes ; nor was it the effect of what is usually termed fascination 
of manner, for Emily’s manner and voice were both so soft and 
unassuming that they never took the fancy by storm. It was not 
compassion for her blindness, though so great a misfortune might 
well, and always did, excite the warmest sympathy. But it was 
hard to realize that Emily was blind. It was a faut uever forced 
upon her friends’ recollection by any repining or selfish indul- 
gence on the part of the sufferer ; and, as there was nothing 
painful in the appearance of her closed lids, shaded and fringed 
as they were by her long and heavy eyelashes, it was not unusual 
for those immediately about her to converse upon things which 
could only be evident to the sense of sight, and even direct her 
attention to one object and another, quite forgetting, for the 
moment, her sad deprivation ; and Emily never sighed, never 
seemed hurt at their want of consideration, or showed any lack 
of interest in objects thus shut from her gaze ; but, apparently 
quite satisfied with the descriptions she heard, or the pictures 
which she formed in hex imagination, would talk pleasantly and 
playfully upon whatever was uppermost in the minds of her com 


THE LAMELIGHTER. 


84 


panions. Some said that Emily had tne sweetest mouth in the 
world, and they loved to watch its ever-varying expression. 
Some said her chief attraction lay jn a small dimple in her right 
cheek ; others (and these were young girls who wanted to be 
charming themselves) remarked that if they thought they could 
make their hair wa^e like Emily’s, they ’d braid it up every night: 
it was so becoming ! But the chosen few, who were capable, through 
their own spirituality, of understanding and appreciating Emily’s 
character, — the few, the very few, who had known her struggles, 
and had witnessed her triumphs, — had they undertaken to express 
their belief concerning the source whence she derived that power 
by which her face and voice stole into the hearts of young and 
old, and won their love and admiration, they would have said, as 
Gerty did, when she sat gazing so earnestly at Emily on Jne 
very Sunday afternoon of which we speak, “ Miss Emily, I k^ow 
you ’ve been with God.” 

Gerty was certainly a strange child. All untaught as she was, 
she had felt Emily’s entire superiority to any being she had ever 
seen before ; and, yielding to that belief in her belonging to an 
order above humanity, she reposed implicit confidence in what 
she told her, allowed herself to be guided and influenced by one 
whom she felt loved her and sought only her good ; and, as she 
sat at her feet and listened to her gentle voice while she gave her 
her first lesson upon the distinction between right and wrong, 
Emily, though she could not see the little thoughtful face that 
was looking up at her, knew, by the earnest attention she had 
gained, by the child’s perfect stillness, and, still more, by the 
little hand which had sought hers, and now held it tight, that 
one great point was won. 

Gerty had not been to school since the day of her battle vvith 
the great girls. \11 True’s persuasions had failed, and she would 
not go. But Emily understood the child’s nature so much bettei 
than True did, and urged upon her so much more forcible motives 
than the old man had thought of employing, that she succeeded 
where he had failed. Gerty considered that her old friend hud 
been insulted, and that was the chief cause of indignation with 
her ; but Emily placed the matter in a different light, and, cod 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


85 


wincing her at last that, if she loved Uncle 1 rue, she wculd show 
ft much better by obeying his wishes than by retaining her foolish 
anger, she finally obtained Gerty’s promise that she would go to 
school the next morning. She also advised her how to conduct 
herself towards the scholars whom she so much disliked, and 
gave her some simple directions with regard to her behavior the 
next day ; telling her that perhaps Mr. Flint would go with her, 
make suitable apologies to the teacher for her absence, and that, 
in such case, she would have no further trouble. 

The next morning True, much pleased that Gerty’s repugnance 
*o the school was at last overcome, went with her, and, inquiring 
for the teacher at the door, stated the case to her in his blunt* 
honest way, and then left Gerty in her special charge. 

Miss Browne, who was a young woman of good sense and good 
feelings, saw the matter in the right light ; and, taking an oppor- 
tunity to speak privately to the girls who had excited Gerty’s 
temper by their rudeness, made them feel so ashamed of their 
conduct, that they no longer molested the child ; and, as Gerty 
soon after made friends with one or two quiet children of her 
own age, with whom she played in recess, she got into no more 
such difficulties. 

The winter passed away. The pleasant, sunny spring days 
came, days when Gerty could sit at open windows, or on the 
door-step, when birds sang in the morning among the branches of 
an old locust-tree that grew in the narrow yard, and the sun at 
evening threw bright rays across True’s great room, and Gerty 
could see to read almost until bed-time. She had been to school 
steadily all winter, and had improved as rapidly as most intelli- 
gent children do, who are first given the opportunity to learn at 
an age when, full of ambition, the mind is most fertile and 
capable of progress. She was looking healthy and well ; her 
clothes were clean and neat, for her wardrobe was well stocked 
by Emily, and the care of it superintended by Mrs. Sullivan. 
She was bright and happy too, and tripped round the house so 
joyously and lightly, that True declared his birdie knew not what 
it was to touch her heel to the ground, but flew about on tie tip? 
her toes. 


8 


80 


TIIE LAMPLIGfl FER 


Hie old man could not have loved the little adopted >113 tetter 
nad she been his own child ; and, as he sat by her side on the 
wide settle, which, when the warm weather came, was moved 
outside the door, and listened patiently and attentively while she 
read aloud to him story after story, of little girls who never told 
lies, boys who always obeyed their parents, or, more frequently 
still, of he child who knew how to keep her temper, they seemed, 
as indeed they were, most suitable companions for each other. 
The old man’s interest in the story-books, which were provided by 
Emily, and read and re-read by Gerty, was as keen and unflagging 
as if he had been a child himself ; and he would sit with his elbows 
on his knees, hearing the simple stories, laughing when Gerty 
laughed, sympathizing as fully and heartily as she did in the sor- 
rows of her little heroines, and rejoicing with her in the final 
triumph of truth, obedience and patience. 

Emily knew the weight that such tales often carried with them 
to the hearts of children, and most carefully and judiciously did 
she select books for Gerty. Gerty’s life was now as happy and 
prosperous as it had once been wretched and miserable. Six 
months before, she had felt herself all alone, unloved, uncared-for. 
Now she had many friends, and knew what it was to be thought 
of, provided for, and caressed. All the days in the week were 
joyous ; but Saturday and Sunday were marked days with her, as 
well as with Mrs. Sullivan ; for Saturday brought Willie home 
to hear her recite her lessons, walk, laugh and play, with her. He 
had so many pleasant things to tell, he was so full of life and ani- 
mation, so ready to enter into all her plans, and in every way 
promote her amusement, that on Monday morning she began to 
count the days until Saturday would come again. Then, if any- 
thing went .wrong or got out of order, — if the old clock stopped, or 
her toys got broken, or, worse still, if her lessons troubled, or any 
little childish grief oppressed her, — Willie knew how to put 
everything right, to help her out of every difficulty. So Willie’s 
mother looked not more anxiously for his coming than Gerty did. 

Sunday afternoon Gerty always spent with Emily, in Emily’s 
own room, listening to her sweet voice, and. half-un consciously 
imbibing a portion of her sweet spirit. Emily preached 00 ser 


TIIE tAMPLI fSIITER. 


8 " 

mons nor did she weary the child with exhortation, and precepts. 
Indeed, it did not occur to Gert) that she went there to be taught 
anything ; but simply and gradually the blind girl imparted ligh 4 
tc the child’s dark soul, and the truths that make for virtue, the 
>ssous that are divine, were implanted in her so naturally, and 
yet so forcibly, that she realized not the work that was going on* 
but long after, -when goodness had grown strong within her 
and her first feeble resistance of evil, her first attempts to keep 
her childish resolves, had matured into deeply-rooted principles, 
and confirmed habits of right, — she felt, as she looked back into 
the past, that on those blessed Sabbaths, sitting on her cricket at 
Emily’s knee, she had received into her heart the first beams of 
that immortal light that never could be quenched. 

Thus her silent prayer was answered. God had chosen an 
earthly messenger to lead his child into everlasting peace ; a mes- 
senger from whose closed eyes the world’s paths were all shut 
out, but who had been so long treading the heavenly road, that it 
was now familiar ground. Who so fit to guide the little one as 
she, who with patience had learned the way ? Who. so well able 
to cast light upon the darkness of another soul as she, to whose 
own darkened life God had lent a torch divine ? 

It was a grievous trial to Gerty, about this time, to learn that 
the Grahams were soon going into the country for the summer. 
Mr. Graham owned a pleasant residence about six miles from 
Boston, to which he invariably resorted as soon as the planting- 
season commenced ; for, though devoted to business during the 
winter, he had of late years allowed himself much relaxation 
from his counting-room in the summer ; and legers and day-book? 
were now soon to be supplanted, in his estimation, by the labor . 
and delights of gardening. Emily promised Gerty, however, tha o 
she should come and pass a day with her when the weather was 
fine; a visit which Gerty enjoyed three months in anticipation, 
and more than three in retrospection. 

It was some compensation for Emily’s absence that, as the days 
became long, Willie was frequently able to leave the shop and 
come home for an hour or two in the evening ; and Willie, as we 
have said, always knew how to comfort Gerty, whatever the 
trouble might be. 


i jcL APTER XII. 


** Let every minute, as it springs, 

Convey fresh knowledge on its wings ; 

Let every minute, as it flies. 

Record thee good, as well as wise.” 

Cotton. 

ir \ias one pleasant evening in the latter part of April, that 
Gerty, who had been to see Miss Graham and bid her good-by, 
before her departure for the country, stood at the back part of 
the yard weeping bitterly. She held. in her hand a book and a 
new slate, Emily’s parting gifts ; but she had not removed the 
wrapper from the one, and the other was quite besmeared with 
tears. She was so full of grief at the parting (with her, the 
first of those many sad partings life is so full of), that she did 
not hear any one approach, and was unconscious of any one’s 
presence, until a hand was placed upon each of her shoulders ; 
and, as she turned round, she found herself encircled by Willie’s 
arms, and face to face with Willie’s sunny countenance. 

“ Why, Gerty ! ” said he, “ this is no kind of a welcome, when 
I ’ve come home on a week-night, to stay with you all the eve 
ning. Mother and grandfather are both gone out somewhere, 
and then, when I come to look for you, you ’re crying so I can’t 
see your face through such oceans of tears. Come, come ! dn 
leave off ; you don’t know how shockingly you look ! ” 

“ Willie ! ” sobbed she, “ do you know Miss Emily ’s gone ? 99 
“ Gone where ? ” 

“ Way off, six miles, to s?';ay all summer ! ” 

But Willie only laughed “ Six miles ! ” said he “ that ’s h 
terrible way, certainly ! ” 

“ Bat I can ’t see her any more ! ” said Gerty. 

“ You can see her n? xt winter,” rejoined WilHe. 


THE LAMPLIGHTKlt 


89 


“ 0 , out that ’s so long ! ” said th ' child. 

“ What makes you think so much cf her ? *’ asked Willie. 

“ She thinks much of me; she can’t see me, and she likes me 
better than anybody but Uncle True.” 

“ I don’t believe it ; I don’t believe she likes you half as well 
as I do. I know she don’t ! How can she, when she ’s blind, and 
never saw you in her life, and I see you all the time, and love 
you better than I do anybody in the world, except my mother ? ” 

“ Do you really, Willie ? ” 

“Yes, I do. 1 always think, when I come home, Now I’m 
going to see Gerty ; and everything that happens all the week, I 
think to myself — I shall tell Grerty that.” 

“ I should n’t think you ’d like me so well.” 

“ Why not?” 

“0, because you ’re so handsome, and I an’t handsome a bit. 
I heard Ellen Chase tell Lucretia Davis, the other day, that she 
thought Gerty Flint was the worst-looking girl in school.” 

“ Then she ought to be ashamed of herself,” said Willie. “ 1 
guess she an’t very good-looking. I should hate the looks of her , 
or any other girl that said that.” 

“ 0, Willie! ” exclaimed Gerty, earnestly, “it ’strue; as true 
as can be.” 

“ No, it an’t true” said Willie. “To be sure, you haven’t got 
long curls, and a round face, and blue eyes, like Belle Clinton’s, 
and nobody ’d think of setting you up for a beauty ; but when 
you ’ve been running, and have rosy cheeks, and your great 
black eyes shine, and you laugh so heartily as you do sometimes 
at anything funny, I often think you ’re the brightest-looking girl 
I ever saw in my life ; and I don’t care what other folks think, to 
long as I like your looks. I feel just as bad when you cry, or 
anything’s the matter with as if it were myself, and worse. 
George Bray struck his litUo .oier Mary yesterday, because she 
tore his kite ; I should have liked to give him a flogging. 1 
would n’t strike you, Gerty, if you tore all my playthings to 
pieces.” 

Such professions of affection on Willie’s part were frequent 
and always responded to by a like declaration from Gerty. Nor 
8 * 


90 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


were the} mire professions. The two children loved each other 
dearly. They were very differently constituted, for Willie was 
earnest, persevering and patient, calm in his temperament, and 
equal in his spirits. G erty, on the other hand, excitable and 
impetuous, was constantly thrown off her guard ; her temper was 
easily roused, her spirits variable, her whole nature sensitive to 
the last degree. Willie was accustomed to be loved, expected to 
be loved, and was loved by everybody. Gerty had been an out- 
cast from all affection, looked not for it, and, except under 
favorable circumstances and by those who knew her well, did not 
readily inspire it. But that they loved each other there could 
be no doubt ; and, if in the spring the bond between them was 
already strong, autumn found it cemented by still firmer ties ; 
for, during Emily’s absence, Willie filled her place and his own 
too, and though Gerty did not forget her blind friend, she passed 
a most happy summer, and continued to make such progress in 
her studies at school, that, when Emily returned to the city in 
October, she could hardly understand how so much had been 
accomplished in what had seemed to her so short a time. 

The following winter, too, was passed most profitably by Gerty. 
Miss Graham’s kindly feeling towards her little protegee, far from 
having diminished, seemed to have been increased by time and 
abse- ce, and Gerty’s visits to Emily became more frequent than 
jver. The profit derived from these visits was not all on Gerty’s 
part. Emily had been in the habit, the previous winter, of hearing 
her read occasionally, that she might judge of her proficiency ; 
now, however, she discovered, on the first trial, that the little girl 
had attained to a greater degree of excellence in this accomplish- 
ment than is common among grown people. She read under* 
standingly, and her accent and intonations were so admirable, 
that Emily found rare pleasure in listening to her. 

Partly with a view to the child’s benefit, and partly for her 
awn gratification, she proposed that Gerty should como every day 
and read to her for an hour. Gerty was only too happy to oblige 
W dear Miss Emily, who, in making the proposal, represented it 
as a personal favor to herself, and a plan by which Gerty’s eyes 
could serve for them both. It was agreed that when True started 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


91 


an iiis lamp-ligating expeditions he should take Gerty tG Mr 
Graham: s, and call for her on his return. Owing to this arrange- 
ment, Gerty was constant and punctual in her attendance at the 
appointed time ; and none but those who have tried it are aware 
what a large amount of reading may be accomplished in six 
months, if only an hour is devoted to it regularly each day. 
Emily, in her choice of books, did not confine herself to such as 
come strictly within a child’s comprehension. She judged, rightly, 
that a girl of such keen intelligence as Gerty was naturally en- 
dowed with would suffer nothing by occasionally encountering 
what was beyond her comprehension ; but that, on the contrary , 
die very effort she would be called upon to make would enlarge 
iqv capacity, and be an incentive to her genius. So history, 
biography, and books of travels, were perused by Gerty at an 
age when most children’s literary pursuits are confined to stories 
and pictures. The child seemed, indeed, to give the preference to 
this comparatively -solid reading ; and, aided by Emily’s kind 
explanations and encouragement, she stored up in her little brain 
many an important fact and much useful information. At Gerty’s 
age the memory is strong and retentive, and things impressed on 
the mind then are usually better remembered than what is 
learned in after years, when the thoughts are more disturbed and 
divided. 

Her especial favorite was a little work on astronomy, which 
puzzled her more than all the rest put together, but which de- 
lighted her in the same proportion ; for it made some things 
clear, and all the re,st, though a mystery still, was to her a 
beautiful mystery, and one which she fully meant some time to 
explore to the uttermost. And this ambition to learn more, and 
understand better, by and by, was, after all, the greatest good she 
derived. Awaken a child’s ambition, and implant in her a taste 
for literature, and more is gained than by years of school-room 
drudgery, where the heart works not in unison with the head. 

From the time Gerty was first admitted, until she was twelve 
years old, she continued to attend the public schools and was 
rapidly advanced and promoted ; but what she learned with Miss 
Graham and acquired by study with Willie at home, formed 


92 


1HK LAM PLIG HT ER. 


nearly as important a part of her education. Willie, as we have 
said, was very fond of study, and was delighted at Gerty’s warm 
participation in his favorite pursuit. They were a great advantage 
to each other, for each found encouragement in the other’s sym 
pathy and cooperation. After the first year or two of theii 
acquaintance, Willie could not be properly called a child, for he 
was in his fifteenth year, and beginning to look quite manly. But 
Gerty’s eagerness for knowledge had all the more influence upon 
him ; for, if the little girl ten years of age was patient and willing 
to labor at her books until after nine o’clock, the youth of fifteen 
must not rub his eyes and plead weariness. It was when they 
had reached these respective years that they commenced studying 
French together. Willie’s former teacher continued to feel a 
kindly interest in the boy, who had long been his best scholar, 
and who would certainly have borne away from his class the first 
prizes, had not a higher duty called him to inferior labors previous 
to the public exhibition. Whenever he met him in the street, or 
elsewhere, he inquired concerning his mode of life, and whether 
he continued his studies. Finding that Willie had considerable 
spare time, he earnestly advised him to learn the French language, 
— that being a branch of knowledge which would undoubtedly 
prove useful to him, whatever business he might chance to pursue in 
life, — and offered to lend him such books as he would need at the 
commencement. 

Willie availed himself of his teacher’s advice, and his kind 
offer, and began to study in good earnest. When he was at home 
in the evening, he was in the habit of coming into True’s room 
partly for the sake of quiet (for True was a quiet man, and had 
too great a veneration for learning to interrupt the students with 
his questions), and partly for the sake of being with Gerty, wh'.< 
was usually, at that time, occupied with her books. Gerty, a^ 
may be supposed, conceived a strong desire to learn French, too. 
Willie was willing she should try, but had no confidence that she 
would long persevere. To his surprise, however, she not only 
discovered a wonderful determination, but a decided talent for lan 
guage ; and, as Emily furnished her with books similar to Willie’s 
she kept j/ace vith him, oftentimes translating more during ths 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


93 


week than h could find time to do. On Saturd.iy evening, when 
they a_ways had a fine study time together, True would sit on his 
old settle by the fire, watching Willie and Gerty, side by side, at 
the tabic, with their eyes bent on the page, which to him seemed 
the greatest of earthly labyrinths. Gerty always looked out "he 
words, in which employment she had great skill, her bright eyes 
diving, as if by magic, into the very heart of the dictionary, and 
transfixing the right word at a glance, while Willie’s province 
was to make sense. Almost the only occasion when True was 
Known to disturb them, by a word even, was when he first heard. 
Willie talk about making sense. “ Making sense, Willie ? ” said 
the old man ; “ is that what ye ’re after ? Well, you could n’t do 
a better business. I ’ll warrant you a market for it ; there ’s 
want enough on ’t in the world ! ” 

It was but natural that, under such favorable influences as 
Gerty enjoyed, with Emily to advise and direct, and Willie te 
aid and encourage, her intellect should rapidly expand and 
strengthen. But how is it with that little heart of hers, that, at 
once warm and affectionate, impulsive, sensitive and passionate, 
now throbs with love and gratitude, and now again burns a? 
vehemently with the consuming fire that a sense of wrong, a con- 
sciousness of injury, to herself or her friends, would at any 
moment enkindle ? Has she, in two years of happy childhood, 
learned self-control ? Has she also attained to an enlightened 
sense of the distinction between right and yrrong, truth and false- 
hood ? In short, has Emily been true to her self-imposed trust, 
her high resolve, to soften the heart and instruct the soul of 
the little ignorant one ? Has Gerty learned religion ? Has she 
found out God, and begun to walk patiently in that path which 
is lit by a holy light, and leads to rest ? 

She has begun ; and though her footsteps often falter, though 
she sometimes quite turns aside, and, impatient of the narrow 
way, gives the rein to her old irritability and ill-temper, she is 
yet but a child, and there is the strongest foundation for hopeful 
ness in th( sincerity of her good intentions, and the depth of her 
contrition when wroag has had the mastery. Emily has spared 
oo pains ia teaching her where to place her strong reliance, and 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


m 

Gerty has already learned to look to higher aid than Emily’*, 
and to lean on a mightier arm. 

Miss Graham had appointed for herself no easy task, when she 
undertook to inform the mind and heart of a child utterly un- 
taught in the ways of virtue. In sone important points, however, 
she experienced far less difficulty than she had anticipated. For 
instance, after her first explanation to Gerty of the difference 
between honesty and dishonesty, the truth and a lie, she never 
had any cause to complain of the child, whose whole nature was 
the very reverse of deceptive, and whom nothing but extreme fear 
had ever driven to the meanness of falsehood. If Gerty’s great- 
est fault lay in a proud and easily-roused temper, that very fault 
carried with it its usual accompaniment of frankness and sincerity. 
Under almost any circumstances, Gerty would have been too 
proud to keep back the truth, even before she became too virtu- 
ous. Emily was convinced, before she had known Gerty six 
months, that she could always depend upon her word ; and nothing 
could have been a greater encouragement to Miss Graham’s un- 
selfish efforts than the knowledge that truth, the root of every 
holy thing, had thus easily and early been made to take up its 
abode in the child. But this sensitive, proud temper of Gerty’s 
seemed an inborn thing ; abuse and tyranny had not been able 
to crush it ; on the contrary, it had flourished in the midst of the 
unfavorable influences amid which she had been nurtured. Kind- 
ness could accomplish almost anything with her, could convince 
and restrain ; but restraint from any other source was unbeara- 
ble, and, however proper and necessary a check it might be, she 
was always disposed to resent it. Emily knew that to such a 
spirit even parental control is seldom sufficient. She knew of but 
one influenpe that is strong enough, one power that never fails 
to quell and subdue earthly pride and passion ; the power of 
Christiar humility, engrafted into the heart, — the humility 01 
N principle , of conscience , — the only power to which native pride 
ever will pay homage. 

She knew that a command, of almost any kind, laid upon 
Gerty by herself or Uncle Ti ue, would be promptly obeyed , for, 
in either case, the little girl would know that the order was given 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


95 


in love, a.id she would fulfil it in the same spirit but, to provide 
for all contingencies, and to make the heart right as well as the 
life, it was necessary to inspire her with a higher motive than 
merely pleasing either of these friends ; and, in teaching her the 
spirit of her Divine Master, Emily was making her powerful to 
do and to suffer, to bear and to forbear, when, depending on her- 
self, she should be left to ner own guidance alone. How much 
Gerty had improved in the two years that had passed since she 
first began to be so carefully instructed and provided for, the 
course of our story must develop. We cannot pause to dwell 
upon the trials and struggles, the failures and victories, that she 
experienced. It is sufficient to say that Miss Graham was satis- 
fied and hopeful, True proud and overjoyed, while Mrs. Sullivan, 
aLd even old Mr Cooper, declared she had improved wonderfully 
in her behavior and her looks, and was remarkab y manned y for 
such a child. 


OHAP'IJSK X 111. 


No caprice of mind. 

No passing influence of idle time. 

No popular show, no clamor from the crowd. 

Can move him, erring, from the path of right. 

W. Gr. Simms. 

One Saturday evening in December, the third winter of G3rty’s 
residence with True, Willie came in with his French books under 
his arm, and, after the first salutations were over, exclaimed, as 
he threw the grammar and dictionary upon the table, “ 0, 
Gerty ! before we begin to study, I must tell you and Uncle True 
the funniest thing, that happened to-day ; I have been laughing 
so at home, as I was telling mother about it ! ” 

“ I heard you laugh,” said Gerty. “ If I had not been so 
busy, I should have gone into your mother’s room, to hear what it 
was so very droll. But, come, do tell us ! ” 

‘ Why, you will not think it ’s anything like a joke when I 
begin ; and I should not be so much amused, if she had n’t been 
the very queerest old woman that ever I saw in my life.” 

“ Old woman ! — You have n’t told us about any old woman ! ” 

“ But I ’m going to,” said Willie. “You noticed how every- 
thing was covered with ice, this morning. How splendidly it 
looked, did n’t it ? I declare, when the sun shone on that great 
elm-tree in front of our shop, I thought I never saw anything so 
handsome in my life. But, there, that ’s nothing to do with my 
old woman, — only that the side-walks were just like everything 
else, a perfect glare.” 

“ I know it,” interrupted Gerty ; “ I fell down, going to school.” 

“ Did you?” said Willie ; “ didn’t you get hurt ?” 

“ No, indeed. But go on ; I want to hear about your old 
woman.” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


6 ' 

64 1 was standing at the shop-door, about eleven o clock, looking 
out, when I saw the strangest-looking figure that you ever imag- 
ined, coming down the street. I must tell you how she was 
dressed. She lid look so ridiculous ! She had on some kind of 
a black silk or satin gown, made very scant, and trimmed all 
Tound with some brownish-looking lace (black, I suppose it had 
keen once, but it is n’t now) ; then she had a gray cloak, of some 
sort of silk material, that you certainly would have said came out 
of the ark, if it had n’t been for a little cape, of a different color, 
that she wore outside of it, and which must have dated a genera- 
tion further back. I would not undertake to describe her bonnet , 
only I know it was twice as big as anybody’s else, and she had 
a figured lace veil thrown over one side, that reached nearly to 
her feet. But her goggles were the crowner ; such immense, 
horrid-looking things, I never saw ! She had a work-bag, made 
of black silk, with pieces of cloth of all the colors in the rainbow 
sewed on to it, zigzag; then her pocket-handkerchief was pinned 
to her bag, and a great feather fan (only think, at this season of 
the year !), that was pinned on somewhere (by a string, I suppose)* 
and a bundle-handkerchief and a newspaper ! 0, gracious ! I 

can’t think of half the things ; but they were all pinned togethef 
with great brass pins, and hung in a body on her left arm, ali 
depending on the strength of the bag-string. Her dress, though, 
was n’t the strangest thing about her. What made it too funny 
was to see her way of walking; she looked quite old and infirm, 
and it was evident she could hardly keep her footing on the ice ; 
and yet she walked with such a smirk, such a consequential little 
air ! 0, Gerty, it ’s lucky you did n’t see her ; you ’d have 

laughed from then till this time.” 

“ S(3me poor crazy crittur’, was n’t she ? ” asked True. 

“ 0, no ! ” said Willie, “ I don’t think she was ; queer enough 
to be sure, but not crazy. Just as she got opposite the shop-coor 
her feet slipped, and, the first thing I knew, she fell flat on 
the side-walk. I rushed out, for I thought the fall might have 
killed the poor little thing; and Mr. Bray, and a gentleman 
he was wa iting upon, followed me. She did appear stunned, at 
first ; but we carried her into the shop, and she came to her senses 
9 


98 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


in a minute or two. Crazy, you asked if she were, Uncle T^ae ? 
No, not she ! She ’s as bright as a dollar. As soon as she 
opened her eyes, and seemed to know what she was about, she felt 
for her work-bag and all its appendages ; counted them up, to 
see if the number were right, and then nodded her head very satis* 
factorily. Mr. Bray poured out a glass of cordial, and offered it 
to her. By this time she had got her airs and graces back again ; 
go, when he recommended to her to swallow the cordial, she re- 
treated, with a little old-fashioned curtsey, and put up both hands 
to express her horror at the idea of such a thing. The gentle- 
man that was standing by smiled, and advised her to take it, 
telling her it would do her no harm. Upon that, she turned 
round, made another curtsey to him, and answered, in a little, 
cracked voice, 4 Can you assure me, sir, as a gentleman of candor 
and gallantry, that it is not an exhilarating potion ? ’ The gen- 
tleman could hardly keep from laughing ; but he told her it was 
nothing that would hurt her. 4 Then,’ said she, 4 1 will venture 
to sip the beverage ; it has a most aromatic fragrance.’ She 
seemed to like the taste, as well as the smell, for she drank every 
drop of it ; and, when she had set the glass down on the counter, 
she turned to me and said, 4 Except upon this gentleman’s assur- 
ance of the harmlessness of the liquid, I would not have swallowed 
it in your presence, my young master, if it were only for the 
example. I have set my seal to no temperance-pledge, but I am 
abstemious because it becomes a lady ; — it is with me a matter 
of choice — a matter of taste? She now seemed quite restored, 
and talked of starting again on her walk ; but it really was not 
safe for her to go alone on the ice, and I rather think Mr. Bray 
thought so, for he asked her where she was going. She told him, 
in her roundabout way, that she was proceeding to pass the day 
with Mistress somebody, that lived in the neighborhood of the 
Common. I touched Mr. Bray’s arm, and said, in a low voice, 
that, if he could spare me, I ’d go with her. He said he should n’t 
*ant me for an hour ; so I offered her my arm, and told her T 
should be happy to wait upon her. You ought to have seen her 
then ! If I had been a grown-up man, and she a young lady, she 
could n’t hav> tossed her head or giggled more. But fr ie tool? 


THE IiAMPLIGHTER. 


arm, and we started off. I knew Mr. Bray and the gentle* 
man were laughing to see us, but I did n’t care ; I pitied the old 
lady, and I did not mean she should get another tumble. 

“ Every person we met stared at us ; and it ’s no wonder they 
did, for we must have been a most absurd-looking couple. She 
not only accepted my offered crook, but clasped her hands together 
round it, making a complete handle of her two arms ; and so she 
hung on with all her might. — But, there, I ought not to laugh at 
the poor thing; for she needed somebody to help her along, and 
I ’in sure she was n’t heavy enough to tire me out, if she did make 
the most of herself. I wonder who she belongs to. I should n’t 
think her friends would let her go about the streets so, especially 
such walking as it is to-day.” 

“ What ’s her name ? ” inquired Gerty. “ Did n’t you find out ?” 

“ No,” answered Willie ; “ she would n’t tell me. I asked her; 
but she only said, in her little, cracked voice (and here Willie 
began to laugh immoderately), that she was the incognito , and 
that it was the part of a true and gallant knight to discover the 
name of his fair lady. O, I promise you, she was a case ! Why, 
you never heard any one talk so ridiculously as she did ! I 
asked her how old she was. — Mother says that was very impolite, 
but it ’s the only uncivil thing I did, or said, as the old lady 
would testify herself, if she were here.” 

“ How old is she ? ” said Gerty. 

“ Sixteen.” 

“ Why, Willie, what do you mean ? ” 

“ That ’s what she told me,” returned Willie ; “ and a true and 
gallant knight is bound to believe his fair lady.” 

“ Poor body ! ” said True ; “ she ’s childish ! ” 

“ No, she is n’t, Uncle True,” said Willie ; “ you ’d think so* 
part of the tii£.e, to hear her run on with her nonsense ; and then, 
the next minute, she ’d speak as sensibly as anybody, and say 
how much obliged she was to me for showing such a spirit of con- 
formity as to be willing to put myself to so much trouble for the 
sake of an old woman like her. Just as we turned into Beacon- 
street, we met a whole school of girls, blooming beauties, hand- 
some enough to kill, my old lady called them , and. from the 


100 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


instant they came in sight, she seemed to take it for granted 1 
should try to get away from her, and run after some of them. But 
she held on with a vengeance ! It ’s lucky I had no idea of for- 
saking her, for it would have been impossible. Some of them 
stopped and stared at us, — of course, I did n’t care how much 
they stared ; but she seemed to think I should be terribly morti- 
fied ; and when we had passed them all, she complimented me again 
and again on my spirit of conformity, — her favorite expression.” 

Here Willie paused, quite out of breath. True clapped him 
upon the shoulder. 1 Good boy, Willie ! ” said he ; “ clever 
boy ! You always look out for the old folks ; and that ’s right. 
Respect for the aged is a good thing ; though your grandfather 
says it ’s very much out of fashion.” 

“ I don’t know much about fashion, Uncle True ; but I should 
think it was a pretty mean sort of a boy that would see an old 
lady get one fall on the ice, and not save her from another by 
seeing her safe home.” x 

“ Willie ’s always kind to everybody,” said Gerty. 

“ Willie ’s either a hero,” said the boy, “ or else he has got 
two pretty good friends, — I rather think it ’s the latter. But. 
come, Gerty ; Charles the XII. is waiting for us, and we must 
study as much as we can to-night. We may not have another 
chance very soon; for Mr. Bray isn’t well this evening; he 
seems threatened with a fever, and I promised to go back to the 
shop after dinner to-monow. If he should be sick, I shall have 
plenty to do, without coming home at all.” 

“ 0, I hope Mr. Bray is not going to have a fever,” said True 
and Gerty, in the same breath. 

“ He ’s such a clever man ! ” said True. 

“ He ’s so good to you, Willie ! ” added Gerty. 

Willie hoped not, too ; but his hopes gave place to his fears, 
when he found, on the following day, that his kind master was 
not able to leave his bed, and the doctor pronounced his symp- 
toms alarming. 

A typhoid fever set in, which in a few days terminated the 
life of the excellent apothecary. 

The deati of Mr. Bray was S£ sudden and dreadful a blow tc 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


101 


Willie, that he did not at first realize the important bearing the 
event had upon his own fortunes. The shop was closed, -the 
widow having determined to dispose of the stock and remove into 
the country as soon as possible. 

Willie was thus lef*: without employment, and deprived of Mr 
Bray’s valuable recommendation and assistance. His earnings 
during the past year had been very considerable, and had added 
essentially to the comfort of his mother and grandfather, who had 
thus been enabled to relax the severity of their own labors. The 
thought of being a burden to them, even for a day, was intolerable 
to the independent and energetic spirit of the boy ; and he earnestly 
set himself to work to obtain another place. He commenced by 
applying to the different apothecaries in the city. But none of 
them wanted a youth of his age, and one day was spent in fruit- 
less inquiries. 

He returned home at night, disappointed, but not by any means 
discouraged. If he could not obtain employment with an apothe- 
cary, he would do something else. 

But what should he do ? That was the question. He had long 
talks with his mother about it. She felt that his talents and educa- 
tion entitled him to fill a position equal, certainly, to that he had 
already occupied ; and could not endure the thought of his de- 
scending to more menial service. Willie, without too much self- 
esteem, thought so too. He knew, indeed, that he was capable 
of giving satisfaction in a station which required more business tal- 
ent than his situation at Mr. Bray’s had ever given scope to. *But, 
if he could not obtain such a place as he desired, he would take 
what he could get. So he made every possible inquiry ; but he 
had no one to speak a good word for him, and he could not 
expect people to feel confidence in a boy concerning whom they- 
knew nothing. 

So he met with no success, and day after day returned home 
silent and depressed. He dreaded to meet his mother and grand- 
father, after every fresh failure. The care-worn, patient face of 
the former turned towards him so hopefully, that he could not bear 
to sadden it by the recital of any new disappointment and hia 
grandfather’s incredulity in the possibility of his ever having any- 
9% 


102 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


thing to do again was equally tantalizing, so long as he saw no 
hope of convincing him to the contrary. After a week or two, 
Mrs. Sullivan avoided asking him any questions concerning the 
occurrences ol the day ; for her watchful eye saw how much such 
inquiries pained him, and therefore she waited for him to make 
his communications, if he had any. 

Sometimes nothing was said, on either side, of the manner in 
which Willie had passed his day. And many an application did 
he make for employment, many a mortifying rebuff did he receive, 
of which liis mother never knew. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


Set where an equal poise of hope and fear 
Does arbitrate the event, my nature is 
That I incline to hope, rather than fear. 

Comui 

'his was altogether a new experience to Willie, and oi e of hs 
an.st trying he could have been called upon to bear. But he bore it, 
and bore it bravely ; kept all his worst struggles from his anxious 
mother and desponding grandfather, and resolved manfully to hope 
against hope. Gerty was now his chief comforter. He told her 
all his troubles, and, young as she was, she was a wonderful con- 
soler. Always looking on the bright side, always prophesying 
better luck to-morrow, she did much towards keeping up his hopes, 
and strengthening his resolutions. Gerty was so quick, sagacious 
and observing, that she knew more than most children of the 
various ways in which things are often brought about ; and she 
sometimes made valuable suggestions to Willie, of which he gladly 
availed himself. Among others, she one day asked him if he had 
applied at the intelligence-offices. He had never thought of it, — 
wondered he had not, but would try the plan the very next 
day. He did so, and for a time was buoyed up with the hopes 
held out to him ; but they proved fleeting, and he was now 
almost in despair, when his eye fell upon an advertisement in a 
newspaper, which seemed to afford still another chance. He 
showed the notice to Gerty. It was just the thing. He had only 
to apply * he was the very boy that man wanted ; — just fifteen, 
smart, capable and trustworthy ; and would like, when he had 
learned the business, t; go into partnership. That was what was 
required ; and Willie was the very person, she was sure. 

Geity was so sanguine, that Willie presented himself the nezl 


104 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


day at the place specified, with a more eager countenance than ht 
had ever yet worn. The gentleman, a sharp-looking man, with 
very keen eyes, talked with him some time ; asked a great many 
questions, made the boy very uncomfortable by hinting his doubts 
about his capability and honesty, and, finally, wound up by declar- 
ing that, under the most favorable circumstances, and with the 
very best recommendations, he could not think of engaging with 
any young man, unless his friends were willing to take some 
interest in the concern, and invest a small amount on his account. 

This, of course, made the place out of the question for Willie, 
even if he had liked tb^ man ; which he did not, for he felt in his 
heart that he was a knave, or not many degrees removed from 
one. 

Until now, he had never thought of despairing ; but wben he 
went home after this last interview, it was with such a heavy 
heart, that it seemed to him utterly impossible to meet his mother 
and so he went directly to True’s room. It was the night before 
Christmas. True had gone out, and Gerty was alone. There 
was a bright fire in the stove, and the room was dimly lighted by 
the last rays of the winter sunset, and by the glare of the coals, 
seen through one of the open doors of the stove. 

Gerty was engaged in stirring up an Indian cake for tea, — one 
of the few branches of the cooking department in which she had 
acquired some little skill. She was just coming from the pantry, 
with a scoop full of meal in her hand, when Willie entered at the 
opposite door. The manner in which he tossed his cap upon the 
settle, and, seating himself at the table, leaned his head upon both 
his hands, betrayed at once to Gerty the defeat the poor boy had 
met with in this last encounter with ill-fate. It was so unlike 
Willie to come in without even speaking, — it was such a strange 
thing to see his bright young head bowed down with care, and his 
elastic figure iooking tired and old, — that Gerty knew at once his 
brave heart had given way. She laid down the scoop, and, walking 
softly and slowly up to him, touched his arm with her hand, and 
looked up anxiously into his face. Her sympathetic touch and look 
were more than he could bear. He laid his head on the table, and 
in a minute more Gerty heard great heavy sobs, each one of whi ib 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


105 


sank dLep into her soul. She often cried herself, — it seemed onty 
natural • but Willie, - - the laughing, happy, light-hearted Willie, 
— she had never seen him cry ; she did n’t know he could. She- 
crept up on the rounds of his chair, and, putting her arm round 
his neck, whispered, 

“ I should n’t mind, Willie, if I did n’t get the place I don’t 
believe it ’s a good place.” 

“ I don’t believe it is, either,” said Willie, lifting up his bead ; 
“ but what shall I do ? I can’t get any place, and I can’t stay 
here, doing nothing.” 

“We like to have you at home,” said Gerty. 

“ It ’s pleasant enough to be at home. I was always glad 
enough to come when I lived at Mr. Bray’s, and was earning 
something, and could feel as if anybody was glad to see me.” 

“ Everybody is glad to see you now” 

“ But not as they were then” said Willie, rather impatiently. 
“ Mother always looks as if she expected to hear I ’d got some- 
thing to do ; and grandfather, I believe, never thought I should 
be good for much ; and now, just as I was beginning to earn 
something, and be a help to them, I ’ve lost my chance ! ” 

“ But that an’t your fault, Willie ; you could n’t help Mr. 
Bray’s dying. I should n’t think Mr. Cooper would blame you 
for not having anything to do now” 

“ He don’t blarrw me ; but, if you were in my place, you ’d feel 
just as I do, to see him sit in his arm-chair, evenings, and groan 
and look up at me, as much as to say, * it ’s you I ’m groaning 
about.’ He thinks this is a dreadful world, and that he ’s never 
seen any good luck in it himself ; .so I suppose he thinks I nevei 
shall.” 

“/think you will,” said Gerty. “I think you’ll be rich, 
some time, — and then won’* he be astonished? ” 

“ 0, Gerty ! you ’re a nice child, and think I can do anything, 
If ever 1 am rich, I promise to go shares with you ; but,” added 
tie, despondingty, “ ’t an’t so easy. I used to think I could make 
money when I grew up ; but it ’s pretty slow business.” 

Here he was on the point of leaning down upon the table again, 
and giving himself up to melancholy ; but Gerty caught hold of 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


i06 

his hands “Come,” said she, “Willie. Don't think any moie 
about it. People have troubles always, but they get over ’em; 
perhaps next week you ’ll be in a better shop than Mr. Bray’s, 
and we shall be as happy as ever. Do you know,” said she, by 
way of changing the subject (a species of tact which children 
understani as well as grown people), “it ’s just two years to-night 
since I came here?” 

“ Is it ? ” said Willie. “ Did Uncle True bring you home with 
him the night before Christmas ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Why, that was Santa Claus carrying you to good things 
instead of bringing good things to you, was n’t it ? ” 

Gerty did not know anything about Santa Claus, that special 
friend of children ; and Willie, who had only lately read about 
him in some book, undertook to tell her what he knew of the 
veteran toy-dealer. 

Finding the interest of the subject had engaged his thoughts in 
spite of himself, Gerty returned to her cooking, listening atten- 
tively, however, .to his story, while she stirred up the corn-cake. 
When he had unished, she was just putting her cake in the oven ; 
and, as she sat on her knee by the stove, swinging the handle of 
the oven-door in her hand, her eyes twinkled with such a merry 
look that W illie exclaimed, “ What are you thinking of, Gerty 
that makes you look so sly ? ” 

“ I was thinking that perhaps Santa Claus would come for you 
to-night. If he comes for folks that need something, I expect he ’ll 
?ome for you, and carry you to some place where you ’ll have a 
chance to grow rich.” 

“Very likely,” said Willie, “ he ’ll clap me into his bag, and 
trudge off with me as a present to somebody, — some old Croesus, 
that will give me a fortune for the asking. I do hope he will ; 
for, if I don’t get something to do before New Year, I shall give 
up in despair.” 

True now came in, and interrupted the children’s conversation 
by the display of a fine turkey, a Christmas present from Mr, 
Graham. JEfa had also a book for Gerty, a gift from Emily. 

“ Is n’t *hat queer ? ” exclaimed Gerty. “ Willie was just say* 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


itn 

in you were my Santa Claas, Uncle True ; and I do believe you 
arc. ' As she spoke, she opened the book, and in the frontis- 
piece was a portrait of that individual. “ It looks like him, 
Willie : I declare it does ! ” shouted she ; “a fur cap a pipe, 
and just such a pleasaut face ! 0 ! Uncle True, if you only had 

a sack full of toys over your shoulder, instead of your lantern 
and that great turkey, you would be a complete Santa Cl? us. 
Have n’t you got anything for Willie, Uncle True ? ” 

“ Y es, I ’ve got a little something ; but I ’m afeared he won’t 
think much on ’t. It ’s only a bit of a note.” 

“ A note for me ? ” inquired Willie. “ Who can it be from ? 

“ Can ’t say,” said True, fumbling in his great pockets ; “ only, 
just round the corner, I met a man who stopped me to inquire 
where Miss Sullivan lived. I told him she lived jist here, and 
I ’d show him the house. When he saw I belonged here too, he 
give me this little scrap o’ paper, and asked me to hand it over, 
as it was directed to Master William Sullivan. I s’pose that ’s 
you, an’t it ? ” 

He now handed Willie the slip of paper ; and the boy, taking 
True’s lantern in his hand, and holding the note up to the light, 
read aloud : 

“ R. H. Clinton would like to see William Sullivan on Thurs- 
day morning, between ten and eleven o’clock, at No. 13 

Wharf.” 

Willie looked up in amazen ent. “ What does it mean ? ” said 
he ; “I don’t know any such person.” 

“ I know who he is,” said True ; “ why, it ’s he as lives in the 

great stone house in' street. He ’s a rich man, and that ’s 

the number of his store — his counting-room, rather, — on 

Wharf.” 

“ What ! father to those pretty children we used to see in the 
window ? ” 

“ The very same.” 

“ What can he want of me ? ” 

“Very like he wants your sarvices,” suggested True. 

“ Then it ’s a place ! ” cried Gerty, “ a real good one, and Santa 
Ulaus came and brought it! I said he would’ O, Willie, 1 y m 
v> glad 1 ” 


m 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


Willie did not know whether to be glad 01 not. it was such a 
strange message, coming too from an utter stranger. He could 
lot but hope, as Gerty and True did, thai it might prove the 
dawning of some good fortune ; but he had reasons, of which they 
were not aware, for believing that no offer from this quarter 
could be available to him, and therefore made them both prom- 
ise to give no hint of the matter to his mother or Mr. Cooper. 

On Thursdav, which was the next day but one, being the day 
after Christmas, Willie presented himself at the appointed time 
and place. Mr. Clinton, a gentlemanly man, with a friendly 
countenance, received him very kindly, asked him but few ques- 
tions, and did not even mention such a thing as a recommenda- 
tion from his former employer ; but, telling him that he was 
in want of a young man to fill the place of junior clerk in his 
counting-room, offered him the situation. Willie hesitated; for, 
though the offer was most encouraging to his future prospects, 
Mr Clinton made no mention of any salary ; and that was a thing 
the youth could not dispense with. Seeing that he was unde 
cided, Mr. Clinton said, “ Perhaps you do not like my proposal 
or have already made some other engagement. ,, 

“ No, indeed,” answered Willie, quickly. “ You are very kin^ 
to feel so much confidence in a stranger as to be willing to receive 
me, and your offer is a most unexpected and welcome one ; bu< 
I have been in a retail store, where I obtained regular earnings, 
which were very important to my mother and grandfather. / 
had far rather be in a counting-room, like yours, sir, and I think 
I might learn to be of use ; but I know there are numbers of boys 
sons of rich men, who would be glad to be employed by you, and 
would ask no compensation for their services * so that I could not 
expect any salary, at least for some years. I should, indeed, be 
well repaid, at the end of that time, by the knowledge I might 
gain of mercantile affairs ; but unfortunately, sir, I can no more 
afford it than I could afford to go to college.” 

The gentleman smiled. “ How did you know so much of these 
matters, my young friend ? ” 

“ I have* heard, sir, from boys who were at school with me, 
&nd are now clerks in mercantile houses, that they received n<» 


THE LAMPLIGHTEK. 


i09 

pay, a^id 1 always considered it a perfectly fair arrangement; 
but it was the reason why I felt bound to content myself with the 
position I held in an apothecary’s shop, which, though it was not 
suited to my taste, enabled me to support myself, and to relieve 
my mother, who is a widow, and my grandfather, who is old and 
pc or.” 

“ Your grandfather is — ” 

u Mr. Cooper, sexton cf Mr. Arnold’s church.” 

“ Aha ! ” said Mr. Clinton ; “ I know him.” 

“ What you say, William,” added he, after a moment’s pause, 
“ is perfectly true. We are not in the habit of paying any sal- 
ary to our young clerks, and are overrun with applications at 
that rate ; but I have heard good accounts of you, my boy (1 
shan’t toll you where I had my information, though I see you look 
very curious), and, moreover, I like your countenance, and be- 
lieve you will serve me faithfully. So, if you will tell me what 
you received from Mr. Bray, I will pay you the same next year, 
and, after that, increase your salary, if I find you deserve it ; and, 
if you please, you shall commence with me the first of J anuary.” 

Willie thanked Mr. Clinton in the fewest possible words, and 
hastened away. 

The senior clerk, who, as he leaned over his accounts, listened 
to the conversation, thought the boy did not express much grat- 
itude, considering the unusual generosity of the merchant’s offer. 
But the merchant himself, who was watching the boy’s counte- 
nance, while despondency gave place to surprise, and surprise 
ugain was superseded by hope, joy, and a most sincere thankfuh 
ness, saw there a gratitude too deep to express itself in words, 
and remembered the time when he too, the only son of his mother, 
and she a widow, had come alone to the city, sought long for 
employment, and, finding it at last, had sat down to write and 
tell her how he hoped soon to earn enough for himself and her. 

The grass had been growing on that parent’s grave, far back in 
the country, more than twenty years, and the merchant’s face 
was furrowed with the lines of care ; but, as he returned slowly 
to his desk, and unconsciously traced, on a blank sheet of paper, 
and with a dry pen, the words “ Bear mother,” she for the time 
1 


110 


THE lamplightel 


became a living image ; he, a boy again ; and those invisible word, 
were the commencement of the very letter that cairied her the 
news of his good fortune. 

No. The boy was not ungrateful, or the merchant would not 
thus have been reminded of the time when his own heart had 
even so deeply stirred. 

And the spirits of those mothers who have wept, prayed, and 
thanked God over similar communications from much-loved sons, 
may know how to rejoice and sympathize with good little Mrs 
Sullivan, when she heard from Willie the joyful tidings. Mr. 
Cooper and Gerty also have their prototypes in many an old 
man, whose dim and world-worn eye lights up occasionally with 
the hope that, disappointed as he has been himself, he cannot help 
cherishing for his grandson ; and in many a proud little sister, 
who now sees her noble brother appreciated by others, as he has 
always been by her. Nor, on such an occasion, is the band of 
rejoicing ones complete, without some such hearty friend as True 
to come in unexpectedly, tap the boy on the shoulder, and ex- 
claim, “Ah! Master Willie, they need n’t have worried about 
you, need they ? I ’ve told your grandfather, more than once, that 
I was of the ’pinion ’t would all come out right, at last.” 

The great mystery of the whole matter was Mr. Clinton’s ever 
having heard of Willie at all. Mrs. Sullivan thought over all 
her small circle of acquaintances, and suggested a great many 
impossible ways. But as, with much conjecturing they came n* 
nearer to the truth, they finally concluded to t ~ as Gerty did 
set it all down to the agency of Santa Claus, 


CHAPTER XV. 


Whether the day its wonted course renewed 
Or midnight vigils wrapt the world in shade. 

Her tender task assiduous she pursued, 

To soothe his anguish, or his wants to aid. 

Blacklovk. 


•• I wonder/’ said Miss Peekout, as she leaned both her hands 
on the sill of the front-window, and looked up and down the 
street, — a habit in which she indulged herself for about ten 
minutes, after she had washed up the breakfast things, and before 
she trimmed the solar-lamp, — “I wonder who that slender girl 
is that walks by here every morning, with that feeble-looking old 
man leaning on her arm ! I always see them at just about this 
time, when the weather and walking are good. She ’s a nice 
child, I know, and seems to be very fond of the old man, — proba- 
bly her grandfather. I notice she ’s careful to leave the best side 
of the walk for him, and she watches every step he takes ; she 
needs to, indeed, for he totters sadly. Poor little thing ! she 
looks pale and anxious ; I wonder if she takes all the care of the 
old man ! ” But they are quite out of sight, and Miss Peekout 
turns round to ivonder whether the solar-lamp does n’t need a 
a aw wick. 

“ I wonder ,” said old Mrs. Grumble, as she sat at her window > 
a little further down the street, “ if I should live to be old and 
infirm (Mrs. Grumble was over seventy, but as yet suffered from 
no infirmity but that of a very irritable temper), — I wonder if 
anybody would wait upon me, and take care of me, as that little 
girl does of her grandfather ! No, I ’ll warrant not ! Who caD 
the patient little creature be ? ” 

“ There, look Belle ” said one young girl to another, as they 


M2 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


walked up the shady side of the street, on their way to school 
“ there ’a the girl that we meet every day with the old man 
How can you say you don’t think she ’s pretty ? I admire her 
looks ! ” 

You always do manage, Kitty, to admire people that every 
body elj>?e thinks are horrid-looking.” 

Horrid-looking ! ” replied Kitty, in a provoked tone ; “ she 
anything but horrid-looking! Do notice, now, Belle, when we 
meet them, she has the sweetest way of looking up in the old man’s 
face, and talking to him. I wonder what is the matter with him ’ 
Do see how his arm shakes, — the one that ’s passed through hers.” 

The two couples are now close to each other, and they pass in 
silence. 

“ Don't you think she has an interesting face ? ” said Kitty 
eagerly, as soon as they were out of hearing. 

“ She ’s got handsome eyes,” answered Belle. “ I don’t see 
anything else that looks interesting about her. I wonder if she 
don’t hate to have to walk in the street with that old grandfather * 
trudging along so slow, with the sun shining right in her face, and 
he leaning on her arm, and shaking so he can hardly stand on 
his feet ! I would n’t do it for anything.” 

“ Why, Belle ! ” exclaimed Kitty, “ how can you talk so ? I ’m 
sure I pity that old man dreadfully.” 

“ Lor ! ” said Belle, “ what ’s the use of pitying? If you are 
going to begin to pity, you ’ll have to do it all the time. Look,” — 
and here Belle touched her companion’s elbow, — “ there ’s Willie 
Sullivan, father’s clerk ; an’t he a beauty ? I want to stop and 
speak to him.” 

But, before she could address a word to him, Willie, who was 
walking very fast, passed her with a bow, and a pleasant “ Good- 
morning, Miss Isabel ; ” and, ere she had recovered from the sur« 
prise and disappointment, was some rods down the street. 

“ Polite ! ” muttered the pretty Isabel. 

“ Why, Belle ! do see,” said Kitty, who was looking back 
over her shoulder, “lie’s overtaken the old man and my interest* 
»yig little girl. Look, — >ok ! He’s put the old man’s othei 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


lis 

arm though his, and they are all three walking off together 
1* n’t that qui^e a coincidence ? ” 

“ Nothing very remarkable,” replied Belle, who seemed a litth 
annoyed. “ I suppose they are persons he ’s acquainted with 
Come, make haste ; we shall be late at school.” 

Reader ! Do you wonder who they are, the girl and the old 
man ? or, have you already conjectured that they are no other 
than Gerty and Trueman Flint ? True is no longer the brave, 
strong, sturdy protector of the feeble, lonely little child. The 
cases are quite reversed. True has had a paralytic stroke. His 
strength is gone, his power even to walk alone. He sits all day 
in his arm-chair, or on the old settle, when he is not out walking 
with Gerty. The blow came suddenly ; struck down the robust 
man, and left him feeble as a child. And the little stranger, the 
jrphan girl, who, in her weakness, her loneliness and her poverty, 
found in him a father and a mother, she now is all the world to 
him ; his staff, his stay, his comfort and his hope. During four 
or five years that he has cherished the frail blossom, she has 
been gaining strength for the time when he should be the leaning, 
she the sustaining power ; and when the time came, — and it came 
full soon, — she was ready to respond to the call. With the sim- 
plicity of a child, but a woman’s firmness ; with the stature of a 
child, but a woman’s capacity ; the earnestness of a child, but a 
woman’s perseverance, — from morning till night, the faithful little 
nurse and housekeeper labors untiringly in the service of her 
first, her best friend. Ever at his side, ever attending to his 
wants, and yet most wonderfully accomplishing many things 
which he never sees her do, she seems, indeed, to the fond old man, 
what he once prophesied she would become, — God’s embodied 
blessing to his latter years, making light his closing da^to, and 
cheering even the pathway to the grave. 

Though disease had robbed True’s limbs of all their power, 
the blast had happily spared his mind, which was clear and 
tranquil as ever ; while his pious heart was fixed in humble trust 
on that God whose presence and love he had ever acknowledged, 
and on whom he so fully relied, that even in this bitter trial 
he was able to say, in perft it submission “ThywUl not min* 
11 * 


114 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


be done ! ” Littk did those who wondered , as day after day the) 
watched the invalid and his childish guardian, at the patience 
and self-sacrifice of the devoted girl, little did they understand 
the emotions of Gerty’s loving, grateful heart. Little did they 
realize the joy it was to her to sustain and support her beloved 
friend. Little did she , who would have been too proud to walk 
with the old paralytic, know what Gerty’s pride was made of. 
She would have wondered, had she been told that the heart of 
the girl, whom she would have pitied, could she have spared time 
to pity any one , had never swelled with so fervent and noble a 
satisfaction as when, with the trembling old man leaning on her 
arm, she gloried in. the burden. 

The outward world was nothing at all to her. She cared not 
for the conjectures of the idle, the curious or the vain. She 
lived for True now ; she might almost be said to live in him, so 
wholly were her thoughts bent on promoting his happiness, pro- 
longing and blessing his days. 

It had not long been thus. Only about two months previous 
to the morning of which we have been speaking had True been 
stricken down with this weighty affliction. He had been in fail- 
ing health, but had still been able to attend to all his duties and 
'abors, until one day in the month of June, when Gerty went 
into his room, and found, to her surprise, that he had not risen, 
although it was much later than his usual hour. On going to 
the bed-side and speaking to him, she perceived that he looked 
strangely, and had lost the power of replying to her questions. 
Bewildered and frightened, she ran to call Mrs. Sullivan. A 
physician was summoned, the case pronounced one of paralysis, 
and for a time there- seemed reason to fear that it would prove 
fatal. He soon, however, began to anumd, recovered his speech, 
and in a Week or two was well enough to walk about, with Gerty’s 
assistance. 

The doctor had recommended as much gentle exercise as pos« 
sible ; and every pleasant morning, before the day grew warm, 
Gerty presented herself bonneted and equipped for those walks, 
which, unknown to her, excited so much observation. She usually 
took advantage of this opportunity to make such little household 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


113 

purchases as were necessary, that she might not be competed to 
go out again and leave True alone ; that being a thing she aa 
much as possible avoided doing. 

On the occasion already alluded to. Willie accompanied them 
as far as the provision-shop, which was their destination ; and, 

having seen True comfortably seated, proceeded to Wharf, 

while Gerty stepped up to the counter to bargain for the dinner. 
She purchased a bit of veal suitable for broth, gazed wishfully 
at some tempting summer vegetables, turned away and sighed. 
She held in her hand the wallet which contained all their money ; 
it had now been in her keeping for some weeks, and was growing 
right, so she knew it was no use to think about the vegetables; 
and she sighed, because she remembered how much Uncle True 
enjoyed the green peas last year. 

“ How much is the meat ? ” asked she of the rosy-cheeked 
L itcher, who was wrapping it up in a paper. 

He named the sum. It was very little ; so little that it almost 
eemed to Gerty as if he had seen into her purse, and her thoughts 
oo, and knew how glad she would be that it did not cost any 
sore. As he handed her the change, he leaned over the counter, 
nd asked, in an under tone, what kind of nourishment Mr. Flint 
vas able to take. 

“ The doctor said any wholesome food,” replied Gerty. 

“ Don’t you think he ’d relish some green peas ? I ’ve got some 
drst-rate ones, fresh from the country ; and, if you think he ’d eat 
’em, I should like to send you some. My boy shall take *ound 
half a peck or so, and I’ll put the meat right in the Mme 
basket.” 

“ Thank you,” said Gerty ; “ he likes green peas.” 

Very well, very well ! Then I ’ll send him some beauties ” 
and he turned away to wait upon another customer, so quick that 
Gerty thought he did not see how the color came into her face 
and the tears into her eyes. But he did see, and that was the 
reason he turned away so quickly. He was a clever fellow, that 
rosy-cheeke i butcher ! 

True had an excellent appetite, enjoyed and praised the dinnei 
exceedingly and, after easing hear tily of it, fell asleej: in his chair. 


lie 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


The moment he awoke, Gerty sprung to his bide, exclaiming 
“ Uncle True, here ’s Miss Emily ! — here ’s dear Miss Emilj 
come to see you ! ” 

“ The Lord bless you my dear, dear young lady ’ ” said True, 
trying to rise from his chair and go towards her. 

“ Don’t rise, Mr. Flint, I beg you will not,” exclaimevl Emily, 
whose quick ear perceived the motion. “ From what Gerty tells 
me, I fear you are not able. Please give me a chair, Gerty 3 
nearer to Mr. Flint.” 

She drew near, took True’s hand, but looked inexpressibly 
shocked as she observed how tremulous it had become. 

“ Ah, Miss Emily ! ” said he ; “I ’m not the same man as when 
l saw you last ; the Lord has given me a warnin’, and I shan’t 
oe here long ! ” 

“ I r m so sorry I did not know of this ! ” said Emily. “ I 
should have come to see you before, but I never heard of your 
illness until to-day. George, my father’s man, saw you and Ger- 
trude at a shop this morning, and mentioned it to me as soon as 
he came out of town. I have been telling this little girl that she 
should have sent me word.” 

Gerty was standing by True’s chair, smoothing his gray locks 
with her slender fingers. As Emily mentioned her name, he 
turned and looked at her. 0, what a look of love he gave her ! 
Gerty never forgot it. 

“Miss Emily,” said he, “’twas no need for anybody to be 
troubled. The Lord provided for me, his own self. All the doc- 
tors and nurses in the land could n’t have done half as much for 
me as this little gal o’ mine. It wan’t at all in my mind, some 
four or five years gone, — when I brought the little barefoot mite 
of a thing to my home, and when she was sick and e’en-a-’most 
dyin’ in this very room, and I carried her in my arms night and 
day, — that her turn would come so soon. Ah ! I little thought 
then, Miss Emily, how the Lord would lay me low, — how those 
very same feet would run about in my service, how her bit of a 
hand would come in the dark nights to smooth my pillow, and I f d 
go about daytimes leaning on her little arm. Truly God’s waya 
ai e not like our ways, nor his thoughts like our thoughts.” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


11 ? 


54 O, Uncle True ! ” said Gerty, 44 I don lo much for you ; 1 
wish I could do a great deal more, I wisu I could make you 
strong again.” 

“ I daresay you do, my darlin’, but that can’t be in this world , 
you ’ve given me what’s far better than strength o’ body. Yes, 
Miss Emily,” added he, turning again towards the blind girl, “it’s 
you we have to thank for all the comfort we enjoy. I loved my 
little birdie ; but I was a foolish man, and I should ha’ spiled her. 
You knew better what was for her good, and mine too. You 
made her what she is now, one of the lambs of Christ, a hand- 
maiden of the Lord. If anybody ’d told me, six months ago, 
that I should become a poor cripple, and sit in my chair all day, 
and not know who was going to furnish a livin’ for me or birdie 
either, I should ha’ said I never could bear my lot with patience, 
:r keep up any heart at all. But I ’ve learned a lesson from this 
dttle one. When I first got so I could speak, after the shock, and 
tell what was in my mind, I was so mightily troubled a’ thinkin’ 
of my sad case, and Gerty with nobody to work or do anything 
for her, that I took on bad enough, and said, 4 What shall we do 
now ? — what shall we do now ? ’ And then she whispered in my 
ear, 4 God will take care of us, Uncle True ! ’ And when I for- 
got the sayin’, and asked, 4 Who will feed and clothe us now ? ’ 
she said again, 4 The Lord will provide.’ And, in my deepest 
distress of all, when one night I was full of anxious thoughts 
about my child, I said aloud, 4 If I die, who will take care of 
Gerty ? ’ the little thing, that I supposed was sound asleep in her 
bed, laid her head down beside me and said, 4 Uncle True, when I 
was turned out into the dark street all alone, and had no friends 
nor any home, my Heavenly Father sent you to me ; and now, if he 
wants you to come to him, and is not ready to take me too, he 
will send somebody else to take care of me the rest of the time I 
stay.’ After that, Miss Emily, I gave up worryin’ any more. 
Her words, and the blessed teachin’s of the Holy Book that she 
reads me every day, have sunk deep into my heart, and I ’m at 
peace. 

44 1 used to think that,, if I lived and had my strength spared 
me, Gerty would be able to go to school and get a sight o’ /arum j 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


U8 

tor sue bas a nateral lurch for it, and it comes easy to her. She 
but a slendei child, and I never could bear the thought of hei 
bein , driv to hard work for a livin’; she don’t seem made for it, 
somehow. I hoped, when she grew up, to see her a schoolmistress, 
like Miss Browne, or somethin’ in that line ; but I ’ve done bein’ 
vexed about it now. I know, as she says, it ’s all for the best, or 
it would n’t be.” 

When he finished speaking, Gerty, whose face had been hid 
against his shoulder, looked up and said, bravely, “ O, Uncle 
True, I ’m sure I can do almost any kind of work. Mrs. Sulli- 
van says I sew very well, and I can learn to be a milliner or a 
dressmaker ; that is n’t hard work.” 

Mr. Flint,” said Emily, “ would you be willing to trust your 
child with me ? If you should be taken from her, would you feel 
as if she were safe in my charge ? ” 

“ Miss Emily,” said True, “ would I think her safe in angel- 
keepin’ ? I should believe her in little short o’ that, if she could 
have you to watch over her.” 

“ O, do not say that,” said Miss Emily, “ or I shall be afraid 
to undertake so solemn a trust. I know too well that my wan! 
of sight, my ill-health and my inexperience, almost unfit me for 
the care of a child like Gerty. But, since you approve of the 
teaching I have already given her, and are so kind as to think a 
great deal better of me than I deserve, I know you will at least 
believe in the sincerity of my wish to be of use to her ; and, if it 
will be any comfort to you to know that in case of your death I 
will gladly take Gerty to my home, see that she is well educated, # 
and, as long as I live, provide for and take care of her, you 
have my solemn assurance (and here she laid her hand on his), 
that it shall be done, and that to the best of my ability I will try 
to make her happy.” 

Gerty ’s first impulse was to rush towards Emily, and fling hex 
arms around her neck ; but she was arrested in the act, for she 
observed that True was weeping like an infant, in an instant his 
feeble head was resting upon her bosom ; her hand was wiping 
away fch ^ great tears that had rushed to his eyes. It was an easy 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


119 


cask, for they were tears of joy, — of a joy that had quite un- 
nerved him in his present state of prostration and weakness. 

The proposal was so utterly foreign to his thoug m or expecta- 
tions, that it seemed to him a hope too bright to be relied upon ; 
and v after a moment’s pause, an idea occurring to him which 
seemed to increase his doubts, he gave utterance to it in the 
words, “ But your father, Miss Emily ! — Mr. Graham ! — he ’s 
partickler, and not over-young now. I’m afeared he wouldn’t 
like a little gal in the house.” 

“ My father is indulgent to me ,” replied Emily; “he would 
not object to any plan I had at heart, and I have become so much 
attached to Gertrude that she would be of great use and comfort 
to me. I trust, Mr. Flint, that you will recover a portion at 
least of your health and strength, and be spared to her for many 
a year yet ; but, in order that you may in no case feel any anx- 
iety on her account, I take this opportunity to tell you that, if I 
should outlive you, she will be sure of a home with me.” 

“ Ah, Miss Emily ! ” said the old man, “ my time ’s about out, 
l feel right sure o’ that ; and, since you ’re willin’, you ’ll soon be 
called to take charge on her. I have n’t forgot how tossed I was 
in my mind, the day after I brought her home with me, with 
thinkin’ that p’raps I was n’t fit to undertake the care of such a 
little thing, and had n’t ways to make her comfortable ; and then, 
Miss Emily, do you remember you said to me, 4 You ’ve done 
quite right ; the Lord will bless and reward you ’ ? I ’ve thought 
many a time since that you was a true prophet, and that your 
words were, what I thought ’em then, a whisper right from 
heaven ! And now you talk o’ doin’ the same thing yourself : 
and I, that am just goin’ home to God, and feel as if I read his 
ways clearer than ever afore, I tell you , Miss Emily, that you ’re 
doin’ right, too ; and, if the Lord rewards you as he has done 
me, there ’ll come a time when this child will pay you back in 
love and care all you ever do for her. — Gerty ? ” 

“ She ’s not here,” said Emily ; “ I heard her run into her own 
room.” 

“ Poor birdie ! ” said True, “ she does n’t like to hear o’ my 
leavin’ her ; I ’ra sad to think how some day soon she ’ll almost 


120 


THE LAM/LIGHTER. 


sob her heart away over her old uncle. Never irind now! I was 
goin’ to bid her be a good child to you ; but I think she will, 
without biddin’; and I can say my say to her another time. Good- 
by, my dear young lady;” — for Emily had risen to go, and 
George the man-servant, was waiting at the door for her, — “ if 
I never see you again, remember that you ’ve made an old man 
so happy that he ’s nothing in this world left to wish for ; and 
that you carry with you a dyin’ man’s best blessin’, and his 
prayer that God may grant such perfect peace to your last days 
as now He does to mine.” 

That evening, when True had already retired to rest, and 
Gerty had finished reading aloud in her little Bible, as she 
always did at bed-time, True called her to him, and asked her, 
as he had often done of late, to repeat his favorite prayer for 
the sick. She knelt at his bed-side, and with a solemn and 
touching earnestness fulfilled his request. 

“ Now, darlin,’ the prayer for the dyin’; — is n’t there such a one 
in your little book ? ” 

Gerty trembled. There was such a prayer, a beautiful one ; and 
the thoughtful child, to whom the idea of death was familiar, 
knew it by heart, — but could she repeat the words ? Could she 
command her voice ? Her whole frame shook with agitation ; 
but Uncle True wished to hear it, it would be a comfort to 
him, and she would try. Concentrating all her energy and self- 
command, she began, and, gaining strength as she proceeded, went 
on to the end. Once or twice her voice faltered, but with new 
effort she succeeded, in spite of the great bunches in her throat * 
and her voice sounded so clear and calm that Uncle True’s devo- 
tional spirit was not once disturbed by the thought of the girl’s 
sufferings ; -for, fortunately, he could not hear how her heart beat 
and throbbed, and threatened to burst. 

She did not rise at the conclusion of the prayer, — she could 
not, — but remained kneeling, her head buried in the bed-clothes. 
For a few moments there was a solemn stillness in the room • then 
the old man laid his hand upon her head. 

She looked up. 

“ You love Miss Emily, don’t you, birdie?” 


the lamplighter. 


121 


c< Yes, indeed.' 1 

“You ’ll be a good child to her, when I ’m gone ? ” 

“ O, Uncle True ! ” sobbed Gerty, “ you must n’t leave me! 1 
can’t live without you, dear Uncle True ! ” 

“ It is God’s will to take me, Gerty ; he has always been good 
to us, and we must n’t doubt him now. Miss Emily can do more 
foi you than I could, and you ’ll be very happy with her.” 

N o, I shan’t ! — I shan’t ever be happy again in this world ! 
I never was happy until I came to you ; and now, if you die, I 
wish I could die too ! ” 

“ You must n’t wish that, darlin’ ; you are young, and must try 
to do good in the world, and bide your time. I ’m an old man, 
and only a trouble now.” 

“No, no, Uncle True! ” said Gerty, earnestly ; “ you are not 
a trouble, you never could be a trouble! I wish I'd never been 
so much trouble to you” 

“So far from that, birdie, God knows you’ve long been my 
heart’s delight ! It only pains me now to think that you ’re a 
spendin’ all your time, and slavin’ here at home, instead of goin 
to school, as you used to ; but, 0 ! we all depend on each other 
so ! — first on God, and then on each other ! And that ’minds me. 
Gerty, of what I was goin’ to say. I feel as if the Lord would 
call me soon, sooner than you think for now ; and, at first, you ’ll 
cry, and be sore vexed, no doubt ; but Miss Emily will take you 
with her, and she ’ll tell you blessed things to comfort you ; — how 
we shall all meet again and be happy in that world where there ’s 
no partin’s ; and Willie ’ll do everything he can to help you in your 
sorrer ; and in time you ’ll be able to smile again. At first, and 
p’raps for a long time, Gerty, you ’ll be a care to Miss Emily, 
and she ’ll have to do a deal for you in the way o’ schoolin’, 
clothin’, and so on ; and what I want to tell you is, that Uncle 
True expects you ’ll be as good as can be, and do just what Miss 
Emily says ; and, by and by, may be, when you ’re bigger and 
older, you ’ll be able to do somethin’ for her. She ’s blind, you 
know, and you must be eyes for her ; and she ’s not over strong, 
and you must lend a helpin’ hand to her weakness, just as you do 
to mine ; and, if you ’ro good and patient, God will make you* 
11 


122 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


heart light at last, while you ’re only toyin' to make other folks 
happy ; and when you ’re sad and troubled (for everybody is, some* 
times), then think of old Uncle True, and how he used to say, 
4 Cheer up, birdie, for I ’m of the ’pinion ’t will all come out 
right, at last.’ There, don’t feel bad about it ; go to bed, darlin’, 
and to-morrow we ’ll have a nice walk, — and Willie ’sgoin’ with 
us, you know.” 

Gerty tried to cheer up, for True’s sake, and went to bed. She 
did not sleep for some hours ; but when, at last, she did fall into 
a quiet slumber, it continued unbroken until morning. 

She dr earned that morning was already come ; that she and 
Uncle True and Willie were taking a pleasant walk; that 
Uncle True was strong and well again, — his eye bright, his step 
firm, and Willie and herself laughing and happy. 

And, while she dreamed the beautiful dream, little thinking 
that her first friend and she should no longer tread life’s paths 
together, the messenger came, — a gentle, noiseless messenger, — 
and, in the still night, while the world was asleep, took the soul 
of good old True and carried it Lome to Got ! 


OHAPTER XVI. 


The stars are mansions built by Nature’s hand ; 

And, haply, there tJae spirits of the blest 
Dwell, clothed in radiance, their immortal vest. 

Wordsworth. 

Two months have passed since Trueman Flint’s death, and 
Gertrude has for a week been domesticated in Mr. Graham’e 
family. It was through the newspaper that Emily first heard of 
the little girl’s sudden loss, and, immediately acquainting her 
father with her wishes and plans concerning the child, she found 
she had no opposition to fear from him. He reminded her, how- 
ever, of the inconvenience that would attend Gertrude’s coming to 
them at once, as they were soon to start on a visit to some distant 
relatives, from which they would not return until it was nearly 
time to remove to the city for the winter. Emily felt the force 
of this objection ; for, although Mrs. Ellis would be at home 
during their absence, she knew that, even were she willing to 
undertake the charge of Gertrude, she would be ’ a very unfit 
person to console her in her time of sorrow and affliction. 

This thought troubled Emily, who now considered herself the 
orphan girl’s sole protector ; and she regretted much that this 
Unusual journey should take place so inopportunely. There was 
no help for it, however, for Mr. Graham’s plans were arranged, 
and must not be interfered with, unless she would make Ger- 
trude’s coming, at the very outset, unwelcome and disagreeable. 
She started for town, therefore, the next morning, quite unde- 
cided what course to pursue, under the circumstances. 

The day was Sunday, but Emily’s errand was one of charity 
and love and would not admit of delay ; and, an hour before the 
time for morning service, Mrs. Sullivan, who stood at her open 


124 


THE LAMPLIGHTEK. 


window, which looked out upon the street, saw Mr. Graham a 
carryall stop at the door. She ran to meet Emilj, and, with the 
politeness ana kindness always observable in her, waited upon her 
into her neat parlor, guided her to a comfortable seat, placed in 
her hand a fan (for the weather was excessively warm), and then 
proceeded to tell how thankful she was to see her, and how sorry 
she felt that Gertrude was not at home. Emily wonderingly 
asked where Gertrude was, and learned th; * she was out walk- 
ing with Willie. A succession of inquiries d, and a long 

and touching story was told by Mrs. Sullivan of Gertrude’s 
agony of grief, the impossibility of comforting her, and the fears 
the kind little woman had entertained lest the girl would die of 
sorrow, 

“ I could n’t do anything with her myself,” said she. “ There 
she sat, day after day, last week, on her little cricket, by^Unele 
True’s easy-chair, with her head on the cushion, and I could n’t 
get her to move or eat a thing. She did n’t appear to hear me 
when I spoke to her ; and, if I tried to move her, she did n’fc 
struggle (for she was very quiet), but she seemed just like a dead 
weight in my hands ; and I could n’t bear to make her come away 
into my room, though I knew it would change the scene, and be 
better for her. If it had n’t been for Willie, I don’t know what I 
should have done, I was getting so worried about the poor child ; 
but he knows how to manage her a great deal better than I do. 
When he is at home, we get along very well ; for he takes her 
right up in his arms (he ’s very strong, and she ’s as light as a 
feather, you know), and either carries her into some other room 
or out into the yard ; and somehow he contrives to cheer her up 
wonderfully. He persuades her to eat, and in the evenings, when 
he comes home from the store, takes long walks with her. Now, 
last evening they went way over Chelsea Bridge, where it was 
cool and pleasant, you know ; and I suppose he diverted her 
attention and amused her, for she came home brighter than I ’ve 
seen her at all. and quite tired. I got her to go to bed in my 
room, and she skpt soundly all night, so that she really looks quite 
like herself to-day. They’ve gone ou again this morning, and 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


125 


Demg Sunday, and Willie at home all day, I ’ye no doubt he ’ll 
keep her spirits up, if anybody can." 

“ Willie shows very good judgment, ’ said Emily, “ in trying 
5) change the scene for her, and divert her thoughts. I ’m thank- 
ed she has had such kind friends. I promised Mr. Flint she 
*4iould have a home with me when he was taken away, and, not 
knowing of his death until now, I consider it a great favor to my - 
'lelf, as well as her, that you have taken such excellent care of 
her. I felt sure you had been all goodness, or it would have 
given me great regret that I had not heard of True’s deatn before.” 

“ 0, Miss Emily ! ” said Mrs. Sullivan, “ Gertrude is so dear 
to us, and we have suffered so much in seeing her suffer, that it 
was a kindness to ourselves to do all we could to comfort her. 
Why, I think she and Willie could not love each other better, if 
they were own brother and sister; and Willie and Uncle True 
were great friends ; indeed, we shall all miss him very much. My 
old father doesn’t say much about it, but I can see he’s very 
down-hearted.” 

More conversation followed, in the course of which Mrs. Sulli- 
van informed Emily that a cousin of hers, a farmer’s wife, living 
in the country, about twenty miles from Boston, had invited 
bhem all to come and pass a week or two with her at the farm, 
and, as Willie was now to enjoy his usual summer vacation, they 
proposed accepting the invitation. 

She spoke of Gertrude’s accompanying them as a matter ot 
course, and enlarged upon the advantage it would be to her to 
breathe the country air, and ramble about the fields and woods, 
after all the fatigue and confinement she had endured. 

Emily, finding from her inquiries that Gertrude would be a 
welcome and expected guest, cordially approved of the visit, and 
also arranged with Mrs. Sullivan that she should remain under 
her care until Mr. Graham removed to Boston for the winter. 
She was then obliged to leave, without waiting foi Gertrude’s re- 
turn, though she left many a kind message for her, and placed in 
Mrs. Sullivan’s hands a sufficient sum of money to provide for 
all her wants and expenses. 

Gertrude went into the country, and abundance of novelty, of 
11 * 


1 26 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


country fare, Ljalthful exercise, and heartfelt kindness andsympa- 
thy, brought the color into her cheek, and calmness and composure, 
if not happiness, into her heart. 

Soon after the Sulli vans’ return from their excursion, the Gra- 
aams removed to the city, and, as we have said before, Gertrude 
nad now been with them about a week. 

“ Are you still standing at the window, Gertrude ? Wha 
are you doing, dear ? ” 

“ I ’m watching to see the lamps lit, Miss Emily.” 

“ But they will not be lit at all. The moon will rise at eight 
o’clock, and light the streets sufficiently for the rest of the night.” 

“ I don’t mean the street-lamps.” 

“What do you mean, my child?” said Emily, coming towards 
the window, and lightly resting a hand on each of Gertrude’s 
shoulders. 

“ I mean the stars, dear Miss Emily. 0, how I wish you could 
see them too l ” 

“ Are they very bright ? ” 

“ 0, they are beautiful ! and there are so many ! The sky is 
as full as it can be.” 

“ How well I remember when I used to stand at this very win- 
dow, and look at them as you are doing now ! It seems to me as 
if I saw them this moment, I know so well how they look.” 

“ I love the stars, — all of them,” said Gertrude ; “ but my own 
star I love the best.” 

“ Which do you call yours ? ” 

“ That splendid one, there, over the church-steeple ; it shines 
into my room every night, and looks me in the face. Miss Emily 
(and here Gertrude lowered her voice to a whisper), it seems to 
me as if that star were lit on purpose for me. I think Uncle 
True lights it every night. I always feel as if he were smiling 
up thera and saying, ‘ See, Gerty, I ’m lighting the lamp for 
you.’ Dear Uncle True ! Miss Emily, do you think he loves me 
aow ? ” 

“ I do, indeed, Gertrude ; and I think, if you make him an ex- 
ample, and try to live as good and patient a life as he (lid, that 
he wiL really be a lamp U your feet and as bright a light U ' 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


127 


your path aa if :. a face were shining down upon you through the 
star.” 

“ I was patient and good when I lived with him ; at least, I 
almost always was ; and I ’m good when I ’m with you ; but I 
don’t like Mrs. Ellis. She tries to plague me, and she makes me 
cross, and then I get angry, and don’t know what I do or say. 
[ did not mean to be impertinent to her to-day, and I wish I had n’t 
slammed the door ; but how could I help it, Miss Emily, when 
she told me, right before Mr. Graham, that I tore up the last 
night’s Journal , and I know that I did not ? It was an old paper 
that she saw me tying your slippers up in, and I am almost sure 
that she lit the library fire with that very Journal , herself ; but 
Mr. Graham will always think I did it.” 

“ I have no doubt, Gertrude, that you had some reason to feel 
provoked, and I believe you when you say that you were not 
the person to blame for the loss of the newspaper. But you 
must remember, my dear, that there is no merit in being patient 
and good-tempered, when there is nothing to irritate you. I want 
you to learn to bear even injustice, without losing your self-corn 
trol. You know Mrs. Ellis has been here a number of years ; 
she has had everything her own way, and is not used to young 
people She felt, when you came, that it was bringing new care 
and trouble upon her, and it is not strange that when things go 
wrong she should sometimes think you in fault. She is a very 
faithful woman, very kind and attentive to me, and very import- 
ant to my father. It will make me unhappy if I have any reason 
to fear that you and she will not live pleasantly together.” 

“ I do not want to make you unhappy ; I do not want to be a 
trouble to anybody,” said Gertrude, with some excitement ; “ I ’ll 
go away . I ’ll go off somewhere, where you will never see me 
again ! ’ ’ 

“ Gertrude ! ” said Emily, seriously and sadly. Her hands 
were still upon the young girl’s shoulders, and, as she spoke, she 
turned her round, and brought her face to face with herself. 
“ Gertrude, dc you wish to leave your blind friend ? Do you not 
lc ve me ? ’ 

So touchingly grieved wits the expression of the countenance 


12B 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


that met her gaze, that Gertrude’s proud, hasty spirit was sub 
dued. She threw her arms round Emily’s neck,, and exclaimed* 
‘ No ! dear Miss Emily, I would not leave you for all the world! 
I will do just as you wish. I will never be angry with Mrs 
Ellis again, for your sake.” 

“ Not for my sake, Gertrude,” replied Emily, — “for your own 
sake ; for the sake of duty and of God. A few years ago 1 
should not have expected you to be pleasant and amiable towards 
any one whom you felt ill-treated ypu ; but, now that you know 
so well what is right ; now that you are familiar with the life of 
that blessed Master, who, when he was reviled, reviled not again; 
now that you have learned faithfully to fulfil so many important 
duties ; I had hoped that you had learned, also, to be forbearing, 
under the most trying circumstances. But do not think, Gei- 
trude, because I remind you when you have done wrong, I despa ii 
of your becoming one day all I wish to see you. What you are 
experiencing now being a new trial, you must bring new strength 
to bear upon it; and I have such confidence in you as to believe 
that, knowing my wishes, you will try to behave properly to Mrs. 
Ellis on all occasions.” 

“ I will, Miss Emily, I will. I ’ll not answer her back when 
she ’s ugly to me, if I have to bite my lips to keep them together.” 

“ O, I do not believe it will be so bad as that,” said Emily, smil- 
ing. “ Mrs. Ellis’ manner is rather rough, but you will get used 
to her.” 

Just then a voice was heard in the entry, — “ To see Miss 
Flint ! Really! Well, Mm Flint is in Miss Emily’s room. 
She ’s going to entertain company, is she ? ” 

Gertrude colored to her temples, for it was Mrs. Ellis’ voice, 
and the tone in which she spoke was very derisive. 

Emily stepped to the door, and opened it. — “ Mrs. Ellis ! ” 

“ What say, Emily ? ” 

“ Is there any one below l . ” 

“Yes; a young man wants to see Gertrude; it’s that young 
Sullivan, I believe.” 

“ Willie ! ” exclaimed Gertrude, starting forward. 

“ You can go down and see him, Gertrude,” said Emily “Come 


THE LAMPLIGHTEU. 


12H 

oack here when he ’s gone, - - and, Mrs. Ellis, I wish you would 
step in and put my room a littk in order. I think you will 
find plenty of pieces for your rag-bag about the carpet, — Miss 
Randolph always scatters so many when she is engaged with her 
dress-mak ng.” 

Mrs. ELis made her collection, and then, seating herself on a 
couch at the side of the fireplace, with her colored rags in one 
hand and the white in the other, commenced speaking of Ger- 
trude. 

“What are you going to do with her, Emily?” said she; 

‘ send her to school ? ” 

“ Yes. She will go to Mr. W.’s, this winter.” 

“ Why ! Is n’t that a very expensive school for a child like 
her ? ” 

“ It is expensive, certainly ; but I wish her to be with the best 
teacher I know of, and father makes no objection to the terms. 
He thinks, as I do, that if we undertake to fit her to instruct 
others, she must be thoroughly taught herself. I talked with him 
about it the first night after we came into town for the season, and 
he agreed with me that we had better put her out to learn a trade 
it once, than half-educate, make a fine lady of her, and so unfit 
her for anything. He was willing I should manage the matter as 
I pleased, and I resolved to send her to Mr. W.’s. So she will 
remain with us for the present. I wish to keep her with me as 
long as I can, not only because I am fond of the child, but she is 
delicate and sensitive, and now that she is so sad about old Mr. 
Flint’s death, I think we ought to do all we can to make her 
happy ; don’t you, Mrs. Ellis ? ” 

“ I always calculate to do my duty,” said Mrs. Ellis, rathei 
stiffly. “ Where is she going to sleep when we get settled ? ” 

“ In the little room at the end of the passage.” 

“ Then where shall I keep the linen press ? ” 

“ Can’t it stand in the back entry ? I should think the space 
Detween the windows would accommodate it.” 

“ I suppose it ’s got to,” said Mrs. Ellis, flouncing out of the 
room, and muttering to herself, — “ everything turned topsy-turv^ 
for the sake of that little upstart ! ” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


18Q 

Mrs Eilis was ve* 3d on more accounts than one. She hau 
long Lad her own way in the management of all household mat- 
ters at Mr. Graham’s, and had consequently become rather 
tyrannical. She was capable, methodical and neat ; accustomed to 
a small family, and now for many years quite unaccustomed to 
children ; Gertrude was in her eyes an unwarrantable intruder — 
one who must of necessity be continually in mischief, continually 
deranging her most cherished plans. Then, too, Gertrude had 
been reared, as Mrs. Ellis expressed it, among the lower classes , 
and the housekeeper, who was not in reality very hard-hearted 
’ find quite approved of all public and private charities, had a 
Might prejudice in favor of high birth. Indeed, though now de- 
pressed in her circumstances, she prided herself on being of a 
^ood family, and considered it an insult to her dignity to expect 
Jn*t she should feel an interest in providing for the wants of one 

inferior to her in point of station. 

More than all this, she saw in the new inmate a formidable rival 
to herself in Miss Graham’s affections ; and Mrs. Ellis could not 
brook the idea of being second in the regard of Emily, who, 
owing to her. peculiar misfortune and to her delicate health, had 
long been her especial charge, and for whom she felt as much 
tenderness as it was in her nature to feel for any one. 

Owing to all these circumstances, Mrs. Ellis was far iron* 
being favorably disposed towards Gertrude; and Gertrude, in 
her turn, was not yet prepared to love Mrs. Ellis very cordial! v. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


And thou must sail upon this sea, a long, 

Eventful voyage. The wise may suffer wreck, 

The foolish must . 0, then, be early wise. 

Wabe. 

Emily sat alone in her room. Mr. Graham had gone to a 
meeting of bank-directors. Mrs. Ellis was stoning raisins in the 
dining-room. Willie still detained Gertrude in the little library 
below stairs, and Emily, with the moonlight now streaming across 
the chamber, which was none the less dark to her on that account, 
was indulging in a long train of meditation. Her head rested on 
her hand ; her face, usually so placid, was sad and melancholy in 
its expression ; and her whole appearance and attitude denoted de- 
spondency and grief. As thought pressed upon thought, and pasi 
sorrows arose in quick succession, her head gradually sunk upon 
the cushions of the couch where she sat and tears slowly trickled 
through her fingers. 

Suddenly, a hand was laid softly upon hers. She gave a quick 
start, as she always did when surprised, for her unusual preoccu- 
pation of mind had made Gertrude’s approaching step unheard. 

“ Is anything the matter, Miss Emily ? ” said Gertrude “ Du 
you like best to be alone, or may I stay ? ” 

The sympathetic tone, the delicacy of the child’s question, 
touched Emily. She drew her towards her, saying, as she did so, 
“ 0 yes, stay with me ;” then observing, as she passed an arm 
round the little girl, that she trembled, and seemed violently agi- 
tated, she added, “ but what is the matter with you, Gerty ? 
What makes you tremble and sob so ? ” 

At this, Gertrude broke forth with, “ 0, Miss Emily ! 1 

thought you were crying when I came in, and I hoped you would 


i32 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


let me come and eiy with you ; for I am so miserable 1 ian’t di 
anything else.” 

Calmed herself by the more vehement agitation of the child 
Emily endeavored to discover the cause of this evidently new and 
severe affliction. It proved to be this : Willie had been to tell 
her that he was going away, going out of the country ; as Ger- 
trude expressed it, to the very other end of the world — to India 
Mr. Clinton was interested in a mercantile house at Calcutta, and 
had offered William the most favorable terms to go abroad as 
clerk to the establishment. The prospect thus afforded was fai 
better than he could hope for by remaining at home ; the salary 
was, at the very first, sufficient to defray all his own expenses 
and provide for the wants of those who were now becoming ever}? 
year more and more dependent upon him. The chance, too, of 
future advancement was great; and, though the young man’s 
affectionate heart clung fondly to home and friends, there was no 
hesitation in his mind as to the course which both duty and inter- 
est prompted. He agreed to the proposal, and, whatever his own 
struggles were at the thought of five, or perhaps ten years’ banish- 
ment, he kept them manfully to himself, and talked cheerfully 
about it to his mother and grandfather. 

“ Miss Emily,” said Gertrude, when she had acquainted hei 
with the news, and become again somewhat calm, “ how can I 
bear to have Willie go away? How can I live without Willie ? 
He is so kind, and loves me so much ! He was always better than 
any brother, and, since Uncle True died, he has done everything 
in the world for me. I believe I could not have borne Uncle 
True’s death if it had not been for Willie ; and now how can I 
let him go away ? ” 

“ It is hard, Gertrude,” said Emily, kindly, “ but it is no 
doubt for his advantage ; you must try and think of that.” 

“ I know it,” replied Gertrude, — “I suppose it is ; but, Miss 
Emily, you do not know how I love Willie. We were so much 
together ; and there were only us two, and we thought everything 
of each other ; he was so much older than I, and always took 
such good care of me ! 0, 1 don’t think you have any idea what 

friends we are ! M 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


138 


Gertrude bad unconsciously touched a chtrd that vibi sited 
through Emily’s whole frame. Her voice trembled as she an- 
swered, “ 1, Gertrude ! not foiow, my child ! I know better than 

you imagine how dear he must be to you. /, too, had ” then 

checking herself, she paused abruptly, and there was a few mo- 
ments' silence, during which Emily got up, walked hastily to the 
window, pressed her aching head against the frosty glass, and 
then, returning to Gertrude, said, in a voice which had recovered 
its usual calmness, “0, Gertrude ! in the grief that oppresses 
you now, you little realize how much you have to be thankful for. 
Think, my dear, what a blessing it is that Willie will be where 
you can often hear from him, and where he can have constant 
news of his friends.” 

“ Yes,” replied Gerty ; “ he says he shall write to his mother 
and me very often.” 

“ Then, too,” said Emily, “ you ought to rejoice at the good 
opinion Mr. Clinton must have of Willie ; the perfect confidence 
he must feel in his uprightness, to place in him so much trust. ] 
think that is very flattering.” 

“ So it is,” said Gertrude ; “I did not think of that.” 

“ And you have lived so happily together,” continued Emily, 
“ and will part in such perfect peace. 0, Gertrude ! Gertrude ! 
such a parting as that should not make you sad ; there are so 
much worse things in the world. Be patient, my dear child, do 
your duty, and perhaps there will some day be a happy meeting, 
that will quite repay you for all you suffer in the separation.” 

Emily’s voice trembled as she uttered the last few words. 
Gertrude’s eyes were fixed upon her friend with a very puzzled 
expression. “ Miss Emily,” said she, “ I begin to think every- 
body has trouble.” 

“ Certainly, Gertrude ; can you doubt it ? ” 

“ I did not use to think so. I knew I had, but I thought 
other folks were more fortunate. I fancied that rich people 
were all happy ; and, though you are blind, and that is a dreadful 
thing, I supposed you were used to it ; and you always looked so 
pleasant and quiet, I took it for granted nothing ever vexed you 
now. And then, Willie! — I believed nee that nothing eou'dmak 8 
12 


134 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


tiim look sad, ho was always so gay; but when he Hadn’t an) 
place, 1 saw him really cry ; and then, when Uncle True died, and 
now again to-night, when he was telling me about going away, ho 
could hardly speak, he felt so badly. And so, Miss Emily, since 
I see that you and Willie have troubles, and that tears will come 
though you try to keep them back, I think the world is full of 
trials, and that everybody gets a share.” 

“ It is the lot of' humanity, Gertrude, and we must not expect it 
to be otherwise.” 

“ Then who can be happy, Miss Emily ? ” 

Those only, my child, who have learned submission ; thos8 
who, in the severest afflictions, see the hand of a loving Father, 
and, obedient to his will, kiss the chastening rod.” 

“ It is very hard, Miss Emily.” 

“ It is hard, my child, and therefore few in this world can 
rightly be called happy ; but, if, even in the midst of our distress, 
we can look to God in faith and love, we may, when the world is 
dark around, experience a peace that is a foretaste of heaven.” 

And Emily was right. Who that is striving after the Christian 
life has not experienced moments when, amid unusual discourage- 
ments and disappointments, the heart, turning in love and trust to 
its great Source, experiences emotions of ecstatic joy and hope, 
that never come to the prosperous and the world-called happy ' l 
He who has had such dreams of eternal peace can form some con- 
ception of the rest which remaineth for the people of God, when, 
with an undivided affection, and a faith undimmed by a single 
doubt, the soul reposes in the bosom of its Creator. 

Gertrude had often found in time and the soothing influences 
of religious faith some alleviation to her trials ; but never until 
this night, did she feel a spirit not of earth, coming forth from the 
very chaos of sorrow into which she was plunged, and enkindling 
within her the flame of a higher and nobler sensation than she 
ever yet had cherished. 

When she left Emily that night, it was with a serenity which is 
strength ; and, if the spirit of Uncle True, looking down upon 
her through the bright star which she so loved, sighed to see the 
tears which glittered in her eyes, it was reassured by the smile 


TIIE LAMPUGHTEK, 


135 

of jl heaven it light that played over her features, and when she 
sunk to slumber stamped them with the seal of peace. 

Willie’s departure was sudden, and Mrs. Sullivan had only a 
week in which to make those arrangements which a mother’s 
thoughtfulness deems necessary Her hands were therefore full 
of work, and Gerty, whom Emily at once relinquished for the 
short time previous to the vessel’s sailing, was of great assist- 
ance to her. Willie was very busy daytimes, but was always 
with them in the evening. 

On one occasion, he returned home about dusk, and, his mother 
and grandfather both being out, and Gertrude having just put 
aside her sewing, he said to her, “ Come, Gerty, if you are not 
afraid of taking cold, come and sit on the door-step with me, as 
we used to in old times ; there will be no more such warm days 
as this, and we may never have another chance to sit there, and 
watch the moon rise above the old house at the corner.” 

“ 0, Willie,” said Gertrude, “ do not speak of our never being 
together in this old place again ! I cannot bear the thought ; 
there is not a house in Boston I could ever love as I do this.” 

“ Nor I,” replied Willie ; “but there is not one chance in a 
hundred, if I should be gone five years, that there would not be a 
block of brick stores in this spot, when I come to look for it. I 
wish I did not think so, for I sliall have many a longing after the 
old home.” 

“ But what will become of your mother and grandfather, if 
this house is torn down ? ” 

“ It is not easy to tell, Gerty, what will become of any of us 
by that time ; but, if there is any necessity for their moving, 1 
hope T shall be able to provide a better house than this for them.” 

“ Y ou won’t be here, Willie.” 

“ I know it, but I shall be always hearing from you, and we 
CBii talk about it by letters, and arrange everything. The idea 
of any such changes, after all.” added he, “ is what troubles me 
most in going away ; I think they would miss me and need me 
so much. Gertrude, you will take care of them, won’t you ? ” 

“ I ! ” said Gertrude, in amazement , “ such a child as 1 1 — what 
ca» I do ? ” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


im 

If I am gone fire or ten years, Gerty, you will not be a child 
all that tim3, and a woman is often a better dependence than a 
man ; especially such a good, brave woman as you will be. I 
have not forgotten the beautiful care you took of Uncle True ; and 
whenever I imagine grandfather or mother old and helpless, 1 
always think of you, and hope you will be near them; for I know, 
if you are, you will be a greater help than I could be. So I leave 
them in your care, Gerty, though you are only a child yet.” 

“ Thank you, Willie,” said Gertrude, “ for believing I shall do 
everything I can for them. I certainly will, as long as I live. 
But, Willie, they may be strong and well all the time you are gone ' 
and I, although I am so young, may be sick and die, — nobody 
knows.” 

“That is true enough,” said Willie, sadly ; “and I may die 
myself ; but it will not do to think of that. It seems to me I 
never should have courage to go, if I did n’t hope to find you all 
well and happy when I come home. You must write to me every 
month, for it will be a much greater task to mother, and I am sure 
she will want you to do nearly all the writing ; and, whether my 
letters come directed to her or you, it will be all the same, you 
know. And, Gerty, you must not forget me, darling ; you must 
love me just as much when I am gone, — won’t you ? ” 

‘ Forget you, Willie ! I shall be always thinking of you, and 
loving you the same as ever. What else shall I have to do ? But 
you will be off in a strange country, where everything will be dif- 
ferent, and you will not think half as much of me, I know.” 

“ If you believe that, Gertrude, it is because you do not know. 
You will have friends all around you, and I shall be alone in a 
foreign land ; but every day of my life my heart will be with you 
and my mother, and I shall live here a great deal more than there.’ 

They were now interrupted by Mr. Cooper’s return, nor did they 
afterwards renew the conversation on the above topics ; but the 
morning Willie left them, when Mrs. Sullivan was leaning over a 
neatly-packed trunk in the next room, trying to hide her tears, and 
Mr. Cooper’s head was bowed lower than usual, while the light 
had gone out in the neglected pipe, which he still neld in his hand. 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


137 


WiVli 8 whispered 1j Gerty, who was standing on a smail chest of' 
books, in order to force down the lid for him to lock it, “ Gerty, 
dear,' for my sake take good care of our mother and grandfather, 
— tney are yours almost as much as mine.” 

On Willie’s thus leaving home, for the first time, to struggle 
and strive among men, Mr. Cooper, who could not yet believe that 
the boy would be successful in the war with fortune, gave him 
many a caution against indulging hopes which never would be 
realized, and reminded him again and again that he knew nothing 
of the world. 

Mrs. Sullivan bestowed on her son but little parting counsel. 
Trusting to the lessons he had been learning from his childhood 
she compressed her parental advice into few words, saying 
“ Love and fear God, Willie, and do not disappoint your mother.’ 

We pause not to dwell upon the last night the youth spent at 
home, his mother’s last evening prayer, her last morning benedic- 
tion, the last breakfast they all took together (Gertrude among 
the rest), or the final farewell embrace. 

And Willie went to sea. And the pious, loving, hopeful 
woman, who for eighteen years had cherished her boy with tender- 
ness and pride, maintained now her wonted spirit of self-sacrifice, 
and gave him up without a murmur. None knew how she strug- 
gled with her aching heart, or whence came the power that sus- 
tained her. No one had given the little widow credit for such 
strength of mind, and the neighbors wondered much to see how 
quietly she went about her duties the day before her son sailed ; 
and how, when he had gone, she still kept on with her work, and 
wore the same iook of patient humility that ever characterized her 

At the present moment, when emigration offers rare hopes and 
inducements, there is scarcely to be found in New England a vil- 
lage so insignificant, or so secluded, that there is not there some 
mother’s heart bleeding at the perhaps life-long separation from a 
darling son. Among the wanderers, w 3 hope, — ay, we believe 
that there is many a one who is actuated, not by the love of gold, 
the love of change, the love of adventure, but by the love he 
bears his mother , — the earnest longing his heart to save hex 
fvcm a life of toil and poverty. Blessmgs and prosperity to him 
12 * 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


is* 

who goes forth with such a motive ! And, if he fail, he has ^ot 
lived in vain ; for, though stricken by disease or violence at the 
very threshold of his labors, he dies in attestation of the truth 
that there are sons worthy of a mother’s love, a love which is the 
highest, the holiest, the purest type of God on earth. 

And now, in truth, commenced Gertrude’s residence at Mr. Gra- 
ham's, hitherto in various ways interrupted. She at once com- 
menced attending school, and until the spring labored diligently at 
her studies. Her life was varied by few incidents, for Emily never 
entertained much company, and in the winter scarcely any 
at all, and Gertrude formed no intimate acquaintances among 
her companions. With Emily she passed many happy hours ; 
they took walks, read books and talked much with each other, and 
Miss Graham found that in Gertrude’s observing eyes, and her 
feeling and glowing descriptions of everything that came within 
their gaze, she was herself renewing her acquaintance with the out- 
side world. In errands of charity and mercy Gertrude was either 
her attendant or her messenger ; and all the dependants of the 
family, from the cook to the little boy who called at the door for 
the fragments of broken bread, agreed in loving and praising the 
child, who, though neither beautiful nor elegantly dressed, had a 
fairy lightness of step, a grace of movement and a dignity of bear- 
ing, which impressed them all with the conviction that she was no 
beggar in spirit, whatever might be her birth or fortune, — and all 
were in the invariable habit of addressing her as Miss Gertrude. 

Mrs. Ellis’ prejudices against her were still strong ; but, as Ger- 
trude was always civil, and Emily prudently kept them much 
apart, no unhappy result -had yet ensued. 

Mr. Graham, seeing her sad and pensive, did not at first take 
much notice of her ; but, having on several occasions found his 
newspaper ca’refully dried, and his spectacles miraculously restored, 
after a vain search on his part, he began to think her a smart girl ; 
and when, a few weeks after, he took up the last number of the 
Working Farmer , and saw, to his surprise, that the leaves were 
cut and carefully stitched together' he, supposing she had done it 
c or her own benefi , pronounced her decidedly an intelligent girl. 

She went often* i see Mrs. Sullivan, and, as the spring advanced 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


139 


«hey began to .ook for news of Willie. No tidings had come, 
howevei, when the season* arrived for the Grahams to remove 
into the country for the summer. A letter, written by Gertrude 
to Willie, soon after they were established there, will give some 
idea of her situation and mode of life. 

After dwelling at some length upon the disappointment of not 
having yet heard from him, and giving an account of the last 
visit she had made his mother before leaving the city, she went 
on to say : “ But you made me promise, Willie, to write about 
myself, and said you should wish to hear everything that occurred 
at Mr. Graham’s which concerned me in any way ; so, if my letter 
is more tedious than usual, it is your own fault, for I have much 
vO tell of our removal to , and of the way in which we live 

here, so different from our life in Boston. I think I hear you 
say, when you have read so far, ‘ 0 dear ! now Gerty is going to 
give me a description of Mr. Graham’s country-house ! ’ — but 
you need not be afraid ; I have not forgotten how, the last time I 
undertook to do so, you placed your hand over my mouth to stop 
me, and assured me you knew the place as well as if you had 
lived there all your life, for I had described it to you as often as 
once a week ever since I was eight years old. I made you beg 
my pardon for being so uneivil ; but I believe I talked enough 
about my first visit here to excuse you for being quite tired of 
the subject. Now, however, quite to my disappointment, every- 
thing looks smaller and less beautiful than it seemed to me then ; 
md, though I do not mean to describe it to you again, I must 
just tell you that the entry and piazzas are much narrower than 
I expected, the rooms lower, and the garden and summer-houses 
not nearly so large. Miss Emily asked me, a day or two ago, 
how I liked the place, and if it looked as it used to. 1 tokl her 
the truth; and she was not at all displeased, but laughed at 
my old recollections of the house and grounds, and said it was 
always so with things we had seen when we were little children. 

“ I need not tell you that Miss Emily is kind and good to me as 
ever ; for nobody who knows her as you do would suppose she could 
ever be anything but the best and loveliest person in the world, 
! can never do half enough, Willie, to repay her for all her good* 


14C 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


ness to me ; and yet, she is so pleased with litt\ 3 gifts, ana so 
grateful for trifling attentions, that it seems as if everybody might 
do something to make her happy. I found a few violets in the 
grass yesterday, and when I brought them to her she kissed and 
thanked me as if they had been so many diamonds; and little 
Ben Gately, who picked a hatful of dandelion-blossoms, without a 
single stem, and then rang at the front-door bell and asked for Miss 
Ga’am, so as to give them to her himself, got a sweet smile for 
his trouble, and a 4 thank you, Bennie,’ that he will not soon 
forget. Was n’t it pleasant in Miss Emily, Willie ? 

44 Mr. Graham has given me a garden, and I mean to have 
plenty of flowers for her, by and by, — that is, if Mrs. Ellis does n’t 
interfere ; but I expect she will, for she does in almost every- 
thing. Willie, Mrs. Ellis is my trial, my great trial. She is 
just the kind of person I cannot end ire. I believe there are 
some people that other people can't like, — and she is just the sort 
I can’t. I would not tell anybody else so, because it would not 
be right, and I do not know as it is right to mention it at all ; but 
I always tell you everything. Miss Emily talks to me about her, 
and says I must learn to love her ; and when I do I shall be as 
angel. 

44 There, I know you will think* that is some of Gerty’s old 
temper ; and perhaps it is, but you don’t know how she tries me : 
it is in little things that I cannot tell very easily, and I would 
not plague you with them if I could, so I won’t write about her 
any more, — I will try to be perfect, and love her dearly. 

44 You will think that now, while I am not going to school, 1 
shall hardly v what to do with my time ; but I have plenty to 
do. The week after we came here, however, I found th^ 
mornings v<?ry dull. You know I am always an early riser ; but 
as it does not agree with Miss Emily to keep early hours, I never 
see her until eight o’clock, full two hours after I am up and dressed 
When we were in Boston, I always spent that time studying 
but this spring, Miss Emily, who noticed that I was growing fast, 
and heard Mr. Arnold observe how pale I looked, fancied it would 
not do for me to spend so much time at my books ; and so, when 
we came to D , she planned my study-hours, which are verj 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


141 


Tew, an ft arranged that they should take place after breakfast and in 
her own room. She also advised me, if I could, to sleep later in 
the morning ; but I could not, and was up at my usual time, wan- 
dering around the garden. One day I was quite surprised to find 
Mr. Graham at work, for it was not like his winter habits ; but he 
is a queer man. He asked me to come and help him plant onion- 
seeds, and I rather think I did it pretty well ; for after that he 
let me help him plant a number of things, and label little sticks 
to put down by the side of them. At last, to my joy, he offered 
to give me a piece of ground for a garden, where I might raise 
flowers. He does not care for flowers, which seems so strange ; 
he only raises vegetables and trees. 

“ And so I am to have a garden. But I am making a very 
long story, Willie, and have not time to say a thousand other 
things that I want to. 0 ! if I could see you, I could tell you 
in an hour more than I can write in a week. In five minutes I 
expect to near Miss Emily’s bell, and then she will send for nu 
$o come ana read to her. 

u I long to hear from you, dear Willie, and pray to God, morn 
Uig and evening, to keep you in safety, and soon send tidings :f 
you to your lovibg Gssvv n 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


Is t not lovely 1 Tell me, where doth dwell 
The fay that wrought so beautiful a spell 1 — 

In thine own bosom, brother, didst thou say 1 
Then cherish as thine own so good a fay. 

Dana. 

A few w'^ks after the date of this letter, Gerty learned 
through George, who went daily to the city to attend to the 
marketing, that Mrs. Sullivan had left word at the shop of our 
old acquaintance, the rosy-cheeked butcher, that she had received 
a letter from Willie, and wanted Gerty to come into town and 
see it. Emily was willing to let her go, but afraid it would be 
impossible to arrange it, as Charlie, the only horse Mr. Graham 
kept, was in use, and she saw no way of sending her. 

“ Why don’t you let her go in the omnibus ? ” asked Mrs. 
Ellis. 

Gerty looked gratefully at Mrs. Ellis; it was the first time 
that lady had ever seemed anxious to promote her views. 

“ I don’t think it ’s safe for her to go alone in the coach,” sai 1 
Emily. 

“ Safe ! — What, for that great girl ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Ellis, 
whose position in the family was such that there were no forms 

of restraint in her intercourse with Miss Graham. 

■ 

“ Do you think it is ? ” inquired Emily. “ She seems a child 
to me, to be sure ; but, as you say, she is almost grown up, and 
I daresay is capable of taking care of herself. Gertrude, are 
you sure you know the way from the omnibus-office in Boston 
to Mrs. Sullivan’s ? ” 

“ Perfectly well, Miss Emily.” 

Without further hesitation, two tickets for the coach were put 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


I kt 

into Gertrude's hand, and she set forth on t er expedition with 
learning eyes and a full heart. She found Mrs. Sullivan and 
Mr. Cooper well, and rejoicing over the happiest tidings from 
Willie, who, alter a long but agreeable voyage, had reached 
Calcutta in health and safety. A description of his new home, 
his new duties and employers, filled all the rest of the letter, 
excepting what was devoted to affectionate messages and inquiries, 
a large share of which were for Gerty. Gertrude stayed and 
dined with Mrs. Sullivan, and then hastened to the omnibus. She 
took her seat, and, as she waited for the coach to start, amused 
herself with watching the passers-by. It was nearly three o’clock, 
arid she was beginning to think she should be the only passenger 
when she heard a strange voice proceeding from a person whose 
approach she had not. perceived. She moved towards the door, 
and saw, standing at the back of the coach, the most singular- 
looking being she had ever beheld. It was an old lady, small, 
and considerably bent with years. Gertrude knew, at a glance, 
that the same original mind must have conceived and executed 
every article of the most remarkable toilet she had ever wit- 
nessed. But, before she could observe the details of that which 
was as a whole so wonderfully grotesque, her whole attention 
was arrested by the .peculiar behavior of the old lady. 

She had been vainly endeavoring to mount the inconvenient 
vehicle, and now, with one foot upon the lower step, was calling 
to the driver to come to her assistance. 

“ Sir,” said she, in measured tones, “ is this travelling equipage 
under your honorable charge ? ” 

“ What say, marm ? — Yes, I’m the driver;” saying which, he 
came up to the door, opened it, and, without waiting for the 
polite request which was on the old lady’s lips, placed his hand 
beneath her elbow, and before she was aware cf#his intention 
lifted her into the coach and shut the door. 

“Bless me!” ejaculated she, as she seated herself opposite 
Gertrude, and began to arrange her veil and other draperies. 
“ that individual is not versed in the art of assisting a lady with 
out detriment to her habiliments. 0 dear, 0 dear! ” added sbe 
id the same breath, “ 1 ’ve lost my parasol ! ” 


144 


THE LAMPLIGHTEK. 


Sue rose as she spoke ; but the sudden starting of the coach 
threw her off her balance, and she would have fallen, had it not 
been for Gertrude, who caught her by the arm and reseated her, 
saying, as she did so, “Do not be alarmed madam ; here is the 
parasol.” 

As she spoke she drew into view the missing article, which, 
though nearly the size of an umbrella, was fastened to the old 
ffidy’s waist by a green ribbon, and, having slipped out of place, 
was supposed lost. And not a parasol only did she thus bring 
to light; numerous other articles, arranged in the same manner, 
<*nd connected with the same green string, now met Gertrude’s 
istonished eyes ; — a reticule of unusual dimensions and a great 
rariety of colors, a black lace cap, a large feather fan, a roll of 
fancy paper, and several other articles. They were partly hidden 
under a thin black silk shawl, and Gertrude began to think her 
companion had been on a pilfering expedition. If so, however, 
the culprit seemed remarkably at her ease, for before the coach 
had gone many steps she deliberately placed her feet on the- 
opposite seat, and proceeded to make herself comfortable. In 
the first place, much to Gertrude’s horror, she took out all her 
teeth and put them in her work-bag ; then drew off a pair of 
black silk gloves, and replaced them by cotton ones ; removed her 
lace veil, folded and pinned it to the green string. She next 
untied her bonnet, threw over it, as a protection from the dust, a 
targe cotton handkerchief, and, with some difficulty, unloosing 
her fan, applied herself diligently to the use of it, closing her 
eyes as she did so, and evidently intending to go to sleep. She 
probably did fall into a doze, for she was very quiet, and Ger- 
trude, occupied with her own thoughts, and with observing some 
heavy clouds that were arising from the west, forgot to observe 
her fellow-ti%veller, until she was startled by a hand suddenly 
laid upon her own, and an abrupt exclamation of “ My dear 
young damsel, do not those dark shadows betoken adverse 
weather ? ” 

“ I think it will rain very soon,” replied Gertrude. 

“ This morn, when I ventured forth,” soliloquized the old lady, 
’‘the sun was bright, the sky serene; even the winged songsters 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


as they piped their uymns, proclaimed their part in the jniveisa) 
joy ; and now, before I can regain my retirement, my delicate lace 
flounces (and she glanced at the skirt of her dress) will prove a 
sacrifice to the pitiless storm.’ ’ 

“ Does n’t the coach pass your door ? ” inquired Gertrude, her 
compassion excited by the old lady’s evident distress. 

“ No ! O, no ! not within half a mile. Does it better accommo- 
date you, my young miss ? ” 

“ No. I have a mile to walk beyond the omnibus-office.” 

The old lady, moved by a deep sympathy, drew nearer to Ger- 
trude, saying, in the most doleful accents, “ Alas for the delicate 
whiteness of your bonnet-ribbon ! ” * 

The coach had by this time reached its destination, and the 
two passengers alighted. Gertrude placed her ticket in the 
driver’s hand, and would have started at once on her walk, but 
was prevented by the old lady, who grasped her dress, and begged 
her to wait for her, as she was going the same way. And now 
great difficulty and delay ensued. The old lady refused to pay 
the amount of fare demanded by the driver; declared it was not 
the regular fare, and accused the man of an intention to put the 
surplus of two cents in his own pocket. Gertrude was impatient, 
for she was every moment expecting to see the rain pour in tor- 
rents; but at last, the matter being compromised between the 
iriver and his closely-calculating passenger, she was permitted to 
proceed. They had walked about a quarter of a mile, and that 
at a very slow rate, when the rain commenced falling ; and now 
Gertrude was called upon to unloose the huge parasol, and carry 
it over her companion and herself. In this way they had accom- 
plished nearly as much more of the distance, when the water 
began to descend as if all the reservoirs of heaven were at once 
thrown open. At this moment Gertrude heard a step behind 
them, and, turning, she saw George, Mr. Graham’s man, running 
in the direction of the house. He recognized her at once, and 
exclaimed, “ Miss Gertrude, you ’ll be wet through ;. and Miss 
Face too,” added he, seeing Gerty’s companion. ‘ ' Sure and 
ye ’d better baith hasten to her house, where ye ’ll be secure.’ 4 

So saying, he caught Miss Pace hi his arms, and tignin to 

IB 


144 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


Gertrude to follow, rushed across the street,, and hurrjmg on to 
a cottage near by, did not stop until he had placed the old lady 
in safety beneath her own porch ; and Gerty at the same instant 
gained its shelter. Miss Pace — for such was the old lady r s name 
— was so bewildered that it took her some minutes to recover her 
consciousness ; and, in the mean time, it was arranged that Ger- 
trude should stop where she was for an hour or two, and that 
George should call for her when he passed that way with the car- 
riage* on A : return from the depot, where he went regularly on 
three afternoons in the week for Mr. Graham. 

Miss Patty Pace was not generally considered a person of 
nuch hospitality. She owned the cottage which she occupied, 
ind lived there quite alone, keeping no servants and entertaining 
no visitors. She was herself a famous visitor; and, as but a 

small part of her life had been passed in D , and all her 

friends and connections lived either in Boston or at a much 
greater distance, she was a constant frequenter of omnibuses anc 
other public vehicles. But though, through her travelling pro- 
pensities and her regular attendance at church, she was well 
known, Gertrude was, perhaps, the first visitor that had ever 
entered her house ; and she, as we have seen, could scarcely be 
said to have come by invitation. 

Even when she was at the very door, she found herself obliged 
to take the old lady’s key, unlock and open it herself, and finally 
lead her hostess into the parlor, and help her off with her innu- 
merable capes, shawls and veils. Once come to a distinct con- 
sciousness of her situation, however, and Miss Patty Pace 
conducted herself with all the elegant politeness for which she 
was remarkable. Suffering though she evidently was with a 
thousand regrets at the trying experience her own clothes had 
sustained, she commanded herself sufficiently to express nearly as 
many fears lest Gertrude had ruined every article of her dress. 
It was only after many assurances from the latter that her boots 
were scarcely wet at all, her gingham dress and cape not likely 
to be hurt by rain, and her nice straw bonnet safe under the 
scarf she had thrown over it, that Miss Patty could be prevailed 
upon to so far forget the duties of a hostess as to retire and 


THE LAMPLIOm*. 




':7 


chan go nor laco flounces for something more suitao^ 
wear. 

As soon as she left the room, Gertrude, whose curiosity was 
wonderfully excited, hastened to take a nearer view of numbers 
of articles, both of ornament and use, which had already attracted 
her attention from their odd and singular appearance. 

Miss Pace’s parlor was as remarkable as its owner. Its furni- 
ture, like her apparel, was made up of the gleanings of every 
age and fashion, from chairs that undoubtedly came over in the 
Mayflower, to feeble attempts at modern pincushions, and imita- 
tions of crystallized grass, that were a complete failure. Ger- 
trude’s quick and observing eye was revelling amid the few relics 
of ancient elegance, and the numerous specimens of folly and 
bad taste, with which the room was filled, when the old lady 
returned. 

A neat though quaint black dress having taken the place of 
the much-valued flounces, she now looked far more ladylike. 
She held in her hand a tumbler of pepper and water, and begged 
her visitor to drink, assuring her it would warm her stomach 
and prevent her taking cold ; and when Gertrude, who could only 
with great difficulty keep from laughing in her face, declined the 
beverage, Miss Patty seated herself, and, while enjoying the 
refreshment, carried on a conversation which at one moment 
satisfied her visitor she was a woman of sense, and the next 
persuaded her that she was either foolish or insane. 

The impression which Gertrude made upon Miss Patty, how- 
ever, was more decided. Miss Patty was delighted with the 
young miss, who, she declared, possessed an intellect that would 
do honor to a queen, a figure that was airy as a gazelle, and 
motions more graceful than those of a swan. 

When George came for Gertrude, Miss Pace, who seemed eally 
sorry to part with her, cordially invited her to come again, and 
Gertrude promised to do so. 

The satisfactory news from Willie, and the amusing adventure# 
of the afternoon, had given to Gertrude such a feeling of buoy- 
ancy and light-heartedness, that she bounded into the house, and 
up the stairs with that fairy quickness Uncle True had so loved 


144 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


Ge- ee j her, and which, since his death, her subdued spirits had 
rarely permitted her to exercise. She hastened to her own room 
to rem;ve her bonnet and change her dress before seeking Emily, 
to whom she longed to communicate the events of the day. 

At the door of her room she met Bridget, the housemaid, with 
a dust-pan, hand-broom, etc. On inquiring what was going on 
there at this unusual hour, she learned that during her absence 
her room, which had since their removal been in some confusion, 
owing to Mrs. Ellis’ not having decided what furniture should 
be placed there, had been subjected to a thorough and compre- 
hensive system of spring cleaning. Alarmed, though she scarcely 
knew why, at the idea of Mrs. Ellis having invaded her premises, 
she surveyed the apartment with a slight feeling of agitation, 
which, as she continued her observations, swelled into a storm of 
angry excitement. 

When Gertrude went from Mrs. Sullivan’s to Mr. Graham’s 
house in the city, she carried with her, beside a trunk containing 
her wardrobe, an old bandbox, which she stored away on the 
shelf of a closet in her chamber. 

There it remained, during the winter, unpacked and unobserved 
by any one. When the family went into the country, however, 
the box went also, carefully watched and protected by its owner. 
As there was no closet or other hiding-place in Gertrude’s new 
room, she placed it in a corner behind the bed, and the evening 
before her expedition to the city had been engaged in removing 
and inspecting a part of its contents. Each article was endeared 
to her by the charm of old association, and many a tear had the 
little maiden shed ever her stock of valuables. There was the 
figure of the Samuel, Uncle True’s first gift, now defaced by time 
and accident., As she surveyed a severe contusion on the back 
of the head, the effect of an inadvertent knock given it by 
True himself, and remembered how patiently the dear old man 
labored to repair the injury, she felt that she would not part 
with the much-valued memento for the world. There, too, were 
his pipes, of common clay, and dark with smoke and age ; but, as 
she thought how much comfort they had been to him, she felt 
that the possesion of them was a consolation to her. She had 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


149 


brought away too his lantern, for she had not forgotten its pleas* 
ant light, the first that ever fell upon the darkness of her life * noi 
could she leave behind an old fur cap, beneath which she had often 
sought a kindly smile, and, never having sought in vain, could 
hardly realize that there was not one for her still hidden beneath 
its crown. There were some toys too, and picture-books, gifts 
from Willie, a little basket he had carved for her from a nut, and 
a few other trifles. 

All these things, excepting the lantern and cap, Gertrude had 
left upon the mantel-piece ; and now, upon entering the room, her 
eye at once sought her treasures. They were gone. The mantel- 
piece was nicely dusted, and quite empty. She ran towards the 
corner, where she had left the old box. That too was gone. To 
rush after the retreating house-maid, call her back, and pour forth 
a succession of eager inquiries, was but the work of an instant. 

Bridget was a new comer, a remarkably stupid specimen, but 
Gertrude contrived to obtain from her all the information she 
needed. The image, the pipes and the lantern, were thrown among 
a heap of broken glass and crockery, and, as Bridget declared, 
smashed all to nothing. The cap, pronounced moth-eaten, had 
been condemned to the flames ; and the other articles, Bridget 
could not be sure, but “ troth, she belaved she was just afther 
laving them in the fireplace.” And all this in strict accordance 
with Mrs. Ellis’ orders. Gertrude allowed Bridget to depart 
unaware of the greatness of her loss ; then, shutting the door, she 
threw herself upon the bed, and gave way to a violent fit of 
weeping. 

So this, thought she, was the reason why Mrs. Ellis was so will- 
ing to forward my plans, — and I was foolish enough to believe it 
was for my own sake ! She wanted to come here and rob me, the 

thief! 

She rose from the bed as suddenly as she had thrown herself 
down, and started for the door ; then, some new thought seeming 
to check her, she returned again to the bed-side, and, with a loud 
sob, falT. upon her knees, and buried her face in her hands. Once 
or twice she lifted her head, and seemed on the point of rising and 
going to face her enemy. Bu‘, each time something came across 
13 * 


150 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


her mind nd letained her. It was not *ear ; — O, no ! Gertrud% 
was not afraid of anybody. It must have been some stronger 
motive than that. Whatever it might be, it was something that 
had, on the whole, a soothing influence ; for, after every fresh 
struggle, she grew calmer, and presently, rising, seated herself in 
a chair by the window, leaned her head on her hand, and looked 
out. The window was open ; the shower was over, and the smiles 
of the refreshed and beautiful earth were reflected in a glowing 
rainbow, that spanned the eastern horizon. A little bird came, 
and perched on a branch of a tree close to the window, and shouted 
forth a Te Deum. A Persian lilac-bush in full bloom sent up a 
delicious fragrance. A wonderful composure stole into Gertrude’s 
heart, and, ere she had sat there many minutes, she felt “the 
grace that brings peace succeed to the passions that produce 
trouble.” She had conquered ; she had achieved the greatest of 
earth’s victories, a victory over herself. The brilliant rain- 
bow, the carol of the bird, the fragrance of the blossoms, all the 
bright things that gladdened the earth after the storm, were not 
Half so beautiful as the light that overspread the face of the young 
girl when, the storm within her laid at rest, she looked up to 
heaven, and her heart sent forth its silent offering of praise. 

The sound of the tea-bell startled her. She hastened to bathe 
her face and brush her hair, and then went down stairs. There 
was no one in the dining-room but Mrs. Ellis ; Mr. Graham had 
been detained in town, and Emily was suffering with a severe 
headache. Consequently, Gertrude took tea alone with Mrs. Ellis. 
The latter, though unaware of the great value Gertrude attached 
to her old relics, was conscious she had done an unkind thing ; and 
as the injured party gave no evidence of anger or ill will, not even 
mentioning the subject, the aggressor felt more uncomfortable and 
mortified than she would have been willing to allow. The matter 
was never recurred to, but Mrs. Ellis experienced a stinging con- 
sciousness of the fact that Gertrude had shown a superiority to 
herself in point of forbearance. 

The next day, Mrs. Prime, the cook, came to the door of Emily’s 
room, and obtaining a ready admittance, produced the little basket, 
made of a nuh saying “ I wonder now, Miss Emily, where Miss Ger 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


151 


trade is , foi I ’ve found her little basket in the ccal-hod, and 1 guess 
she ’ll be right glad on 't — ’t an’t hurt a mite.” Emily inquired 
“ What basket ? ” and the cook, placing it in her hands, proceeded 
with eagerness to give an account of the destruction of Gertrude’s 
property, which she had herself witnessed with great indignation. 
She also gave a piteous description of the distress the young girl 
manifested in her questioning of Bridget, which the sympathizing 
cook had overheard from her own not very distant chamber. 

As Emily listened to the story, she well remembered having 
thought, the previous afternoon, that she heard Gertrude sobbing 
in her room, which on one side adjoined her own, but that she 
afterwards concluded herself to have been mistaken. “ Go,” said 
she, “ and carry the basket to Gertrude ; she is in the little library ; 
but please, Mrs. Prime, don’t tell her that you have mentioned 
the matter to me.” Emily expected, for several days, to hear 
from Gertrude the story of her injuries; but Gertrude kept her 
trouble to herself, and bore it in silence. 

This was the first instance of complete self-control in Gerty, and 
the last we shall have occasion to dwell upon. From this time 
she continued to experience more and more the power of govern- 
ing herself ; and, with each new effort gaining new strength, 
became at last a wonder to those who knew the temperament she 
had had to contend with. She was now nearly fourteen years old, 
and so rapid had been her recent growth that, instead of being 
below the usual stature, she was taller than most girls of her age. 
Freedom from study, and plenty of air and exercise, prevented 
her, however, from suffering from this circumstance. 

Her garden was a source of great pleasure to her, and, flowers 
seeming to prosper under her careful training, she had always a 
Vouquet ready to place by Emily’s plate at breakfast-tiine. 

Occasionally she went to see her friend Miss Patty Pace, and 
always met with a cordial reception. Miss Patty’s attention was 
very much engrossed by the manufacture of paper flowers, and, as 
Gertrude’s garden furnished the models, the seldom went empty- 
handed *, but, the old lady’s success being very ill proportioned to 
her efforts, it would have been a libel upon nature to pronounce 
aven the most favorable specimens this sort of fancy-work true 


152 


THE LAMPLIGHTEI*. 


copies of the original. Miss Patty was satisfied, however ; and it 
is to be hoped that her various friends, for whom the large bunches 
were intended that travelled about tied to her waist by the green 
string, were satisfied also. 

Miss Patty seemed to have a great many friends. Judging from 
the numbers of people that she talked about to Gertrude, the latter 
concluded she must be acquainted with everybody in Boston. 
Ai.d it would have been hard to find any one whose intercourse 
extended to a wider circle. She had, in her youth, learned an 
upholsterer’s trade, which she had practised for many years in the 
employment (as she said) of the first families in the city ; and sr 
observing was she, and so acute in her judgment, that a report at) 
one time prevailed that Miss Pace had eyes in the back of her 
head, and two pair of ears. Notwithstanding her wonderful vis- 
ionary and comprehending powers, she had never been known to 
make mischief in families. She was prudent and conscientious, 
and, though always peculiar in her habits and modes of expression, 
and so wild in some of her fancies as to be often thought by 
strangers a little out, she had secured and continued to retain the 
good will of a great many kindly-disposed ladies and gentlemen, 
at whose houses she was always well received and politely treated. 
She calculated, in the course of every year, to go the rounds 
among all these friends, and thus kept up her intimacy with house- 
holds in every member of which she felt a warm personal interest. 

Miss Patty labored under one great and absorbing regret, and 
frequently expatiated to Gertrude on the subject ; it was, that she 
was without a companion. “ Ah, Miss Gertrude,” she would some- 
times exclaim, seeming for the time quite forgetful of her age and 
infirmities, “ I should do vastly well in this world, if I only had a 
companion ; ” and here, with a slight toss of the head, and a little, 
smirking air, she would add, in a whisper, “ and you must know, 
my dear, I somewhat meditate matrimony.” Then, seeing Ger- 
trude’s look of surprise and amusement, she would apologize for 
having so long delayed fulfilling what had always been her inten- 
tion ; and, at the same time that she admitted net being as young 
as she had once been, would usually close with the remark, 4 It is 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


15H 


cru^ fun *s inexorable; but I cling to life, Miss Gertrude, 1 
cling to life, and may marry yet.” 

On the subject of fashion, too, she would declaim at great 
length, avowing, for her own part, a rigid determination to be 
modem, whatever the cost might be. Gertrude could not fail to 
observe that she had failed in this intention as signally as in that 
of securing a youthful swain ; and she was also gradually led to 
conclude that Miss Pace, whatever might be her means, was a 
terrible miser. Emily, who knew the old lady very well, and had 
often employed her* did not oppose Gertrude’s visits to the cottage, 
and sometimes accompanied her ; for Emily loved to be amused, 
and Miss Patty’s quaint conversation was as great a treat to her 
as to Gertrude. These calls were so promptly returned, that it 
was made very evide nt that Miss Patty preferred doing the greater 
part of the visiting herself ; observing which, Emily gave her a 
general invitation ti the house, of which she was not slow tc avail 
kernel? 


CHAPTER XIX. 


More i jalth, dear maid, thy soothing presence brings. 

Than purest skies, or salutary springs. 

Mrs. Babbauu> 

Persons who own residences within six miles of a large citj 
cannot be properly said to enjoy country life. They have large 
gardens, oftentimes extensive grounds, and raise their own fruit 
and vegetables ; they usually keep horses, drive about and take 
the air. Some maintain quite a barn-yard establishment, and 
pride themselves upon their fat cattle and Shanghae fowls. But, 
after all, these suburban residents do not taste the charms of true 
country life. There are no pathless woods, no roaring brooks, no 
waving fields of grain, no wide stretches of pasture-land. Every 
eminence commands a view of the near metropolis, the hum of 
which is almost audible ; and every hourly-omnibus, or train of 
cars, carries one’s self, or one’s neighbor, to or from the busy mart. 

Those who seek retirement and seclusion, however, can no- 
where be more sure to find it than in one of these half-country, 
half-city homes ; and many a family will, summer after summer, 
resort to the same quiet corner, and, undisturbed by visitors or 
gossip, maintain an independence of life which would be quite 
impossible either in the crowded streets of the town, where one’s 
acquaintances are forever dropping in, or in the strictly country 
villages, where every new comer is observed, called upon and 
talked about. 

Mr. Graham’s establishment was of the medium order, and lit- 
tle calculated to attract notice. The garden was certainly very 
oeautiful, abounding in rich shrubbery, summer-houses, and ai 
bors covered with grape-vines ; but a high board-fence hid it from 


THE LAMPLIGHTER* 


155 


public viijw, and the house, standing back from Jhe road, waa 
rather old-fashioned and very unobtrusive in its appearance. 

Excepting his horticultural propensities, Mr. Graham’s associa- 
tions were all connected with the city ; and Emily, being unfitted 
for much general intercourse with society, entertained little com- 
pany, save that of the neighbors who made formal calls, and 
some particular friends, such as Mr. Arnold, the clergyman, and 
a few intimates, who often towards evening drove out of town to 
see Emily and eat fruit. 

The summer was passing away most happily, and Gertrude, in 
the constant enjoyment of Emily’s society, and in the conscious- 
ness that she was, in various ways, rendering herself useful and 
Important to this excellent friend, was finding in every day new 
causes of contentment and rejoicing, when a seal was suddenly set 
to all her pleasure. 

Emily was taken ill with a fever, and Gertrude, on occasion 
of her first undertaking to enter the sick room, and share in its 
duties, was rudely repulsed by Mrs. Ellis, who had constituted 
herself sole nurse, and who declared, when the poor girl pleaded 
hard to be admitted, that the fever was catching, and Miss Emily 
did not want her there, — that when she was sick she never wanted 
any one about her but herself. 

For three or four days Gertrude wandered about the house, 
inconsolable. On the fifth morning after her banishment from the 
room, she saw Mrs. Prime, the cook, going up stairs with some 
gruel; and, thrusting into her hand some beautiful rose-buds, 
which she had just gathered, she begged her to give them to 
Emily, and ask if she might not come in and see her. 

She lingered about the kitchen awaiting Mrs. 1 rime’s return, 
in hopes of some message, at least, from the sufferer. But when 
the cook came down the flowers were still in her hand, and, as 
she threw them on the table, the kind-hearted woman gave vent 
to her feelings. 

“ Well ! folks do say that first-rate cooks and nurses are allers 
as cross as bears ! ’T an’t for me to say whether it ’s so ’bout 
cooks, but ’bout nurses there an’t no sort o’ doubt ! I would 


TIIE LAMPLiailTEtt 


158 

tailing oy stretching forth both hands, and sustaining Umself 
against the huge trunk of the fine old tree. At the same instant 
a head, adorned with a velvet smoking-cap, was slowly lifted from 
the long grass, and a youth, about sixteen or seventeen years of 
age, raised himself upon his elbow, and stared at the unlooked-for 
intruder. 

Nothing daunted, the doctor at once took offensive ground 
towards the occupant of the place, saying, “ G-et up, lazy bones ! 
What do you lie there for, tripping up honest folks ? ” 

“ Who do you call honest folks, sir ? ” inquired the youth, 
apparently quite undisturbed by the doctor’s epithet and inquiry. 

“I call myself and my little friend here remarkably honest 
people,” replied the doctor, winking at Gertrude, who, standing 
behind the wall and looking over, was laughing heartily at the 
way in which the doctor had got caught. 

The young man, observing the direction, of the latter’s eyes 
turned and gave a broad stare at Gertrude’s merry face. 

“ Can I do anything for you, sir ? ” asked he. 

“ Yes, certainly,” replied the doctor. “ I came here to help 
myself to pears ; but you are taller than I, — perhaps, wita f he 
help of that crooked-handled cane of yours, you can reach that 
best branch.” 

“ A remarkably honorable and honest errand ! ” muttered the 
young man. “ I shall be happy to be engaged in so good a cause.” 

As he spoke, he lifted his cane, which lay by his side, and, 
drawing down the end of the branch, so that he could reach it 
with his hand, shook it vigorously. The ripe fruit fell on every 
side, and the doctor, having filled his pockets, and both his hands, 
started for the other side of the wall. 

“ Have you got enough ? ” asked the youth, in a very lazy tone 
of voice. 

“ Plenty, plenty,” said the doctor. 

“Glad of it,” said the boy, indolently throwing Hmself on die 
grass, and still staring at Gertrude. 

“You must be very tired,” said the doctor, stepping back a 
pace or two ; 1 1 ’m a physician, and should rdvise a nap. ’ 

“ Are you, indeed ! ” replied the youth, in the same half-drawl 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


159 


mg, half-ironical tone of voice in which he had previously spoken , 
then I think I ’ll take your advice, saying which, he threw 
himself back upon the grass and closed his eyes. 

Having emptied his pockets upon the seat of the summer-house 
and invited Gertrude to partake, the doctor, still laughing so 
immoderately at his boyish feat that he could scarcely eat the 
fruit, happened to bethink himself of the lateness of the hour. 
He looked at his watch. “ Half-past four ! The cars go in ten 
minutes. Who ’s going to drive me down to the depot ? ” 

“ I don’t know, sir,” replied Gertrude, to whom the question 
seemed to be addressed. 

“ Where ’s George ? ” 

“ He ’s gone to the meadow to get in some hay, but he left 
white Charlie harnessed in the yard ; I saw him fasten him to 
the chain, after he drove you up from the cars.” 

“ Ah ! then you can drive me down to the depot.” 

“ I can’t, sir ; I don’t know how.” 

“ But you must ; I ’ll show you how. You J re not afraid ! 

“ 0, no, sir ; but Mr. Graham ” — 

“Never you mind Mr. Graham — do you mind me. I’ll 
answer for your coming back safe enough.” 

Gertrude was naturally courageous ; she had never driven before, 
but, having no fears, she succeeded admirably, and, being often 
afterwards called upon by Dr. Jeremy to perform the same ser- 
vice, she soon became skilful in the use of the reins, — an accom- 
plishment not always particularly desirable in a lady, but which, 
in her case, proved very useful. 

Dr. Jeremy was true to his promise of installing Gertrude in 
Emily’s sick room. The very next visit he made to nis patient, 
he spoke in terms of the highest praise of Gertrude’s devotion to 
her old uncle, and her capability as a nurse, and asked why she 
had been expelled from the chamber. 

“ She is timid,” said Emily, “ and is afraid of catching the 
fever.” 

“ Don’t believe it,” said Dr. Jeremy; “ ’tan’t like her.” 

“ Do you think not ? ” inquired Emily, earnestly. “ Mrs. Ellis - - w 

u Told a lie.” interrupted the doctor “ Gerty wants to come 


180 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


and .ake care of you, and she knows h?M as well as Mra. Ellis^ 
any day ; it. is n t much you need done. You want quiet, and 
that ’s what you can’t have, with that great talking woman about. 
So I ’ll send her to Jericho to-day, and bring my little Gertrude up 
here. She’s a quiet little mouse, and has got a head on her 
shoulders.” 

It is not to be supposed that Gertrude could provide for Emily’s 
wants any better or even as well, as Mrs. Ellis ; and Emily, 
knowing this, took care that the housekeeper should not be sent to 
Jericho; for, though Dr. Jeremy, a man of strong prejudices, dia 
not like her, she was excellent in her department, and could not 
be dispensed with. Had it been otherwise, Emily would not have 
nurt her feelings by letting her see that she was in any degree 
superseded. 

So, though Emily, Dr. Jeremy and Gertrude, were all made 
happy by the free admission of the latter to the sick room, the 
housekeeper, unhandsomely as she had behaved, was never con- 
scious that any one knew the wrong she had done to Gertrude, in 
keeping her out of sight and giving a false reason for her continued 
absence. 

There was a watchfulness, a care, a tenderness, in Gertrude, 
which only the warmest love could have dictated. 

When Emily awoke at night from a troubled sleep, found a 
cooling draught ready at her lips, and knew from Mrs. Ellis’ deep 
snoring that it was not her hand that held it, — when she observed 
that all day long no troublesome fly was ever permitted to approach 
her pillow, her aching head was relieved by hours of patient bath- 
ing, and the little feet that were never weary were always noise- 
less, — she realized the truth, that Dr. Jeremy had brought her a 
most excellent medicine. 

A week or two passed away, and she was well enough to sit up 
nearly all the time, though not yet able to leave her room. A 
few weeks more, and the doctor began to insist upon air and exer- 
cise. “ Drive out two or three times every day,” said he. 

“How can I ?” said Emily. “George has so much to do. il 
irill be very inconvenient.” 

“ Let Gertrude drive you ; she is a capital hand.” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


161 


*• Gertrude,” said Emily, smiling, “ I belie re you are a great 
iiivorite of the doctor’s ; he thinks you can do anything. £ou 
never drove in your life, did you ? ” 

“ Has n’t she driven me to the depot, every day, for these six 
weeks 7 ” inquired the doctor. 

“Is it possible ? ” asked Emily, who was unaccustomed to the 
idea of a lady’s attempting the management of a horse. 

UpiM W being assured this was the case, and the doctor 
insisting that there was no danger, Charlie was harnessed into 
the carryall, and Emily and Mrs. Ellis went out to drive with 
Gertrude ; experiment which, being often repeated, was a 
source of health to the invalid, and pleasure to them all. In 
the early autumn, when Emily’s health was quite restored, old 
Charlie was daily called into requisition ; sometimes Mrs. Ellis 
accompanied them, but, as she was often engaged about household 
duties, they usually went by themselves, in a large, old-fashioned 
buggy, and Emily declared that Gertrude’s learning to drive had 
proved one of the greatest sources of happiness she had known for 
years. 

Once or twice, in the course of the summer and autumn, Ger- 
trude saw again the lazy youth whom Dr. Jeremy had stumbled 
over when he went to steal pears. 

Once he came and sat on the wall while she was at work in 
her garden, professed himself astonished at her activity, talked a 
little with her about her flowers, asked some questions concerning 
her friend Dr. Jeremy, and ended by requesting to know her 
name. 

Gertrude blushed; she was a little sensitive about her name, 
and, though she always went by that of Flint, and did not, on 
ordinary occasions, think much about it, she could not fail to 
remember, ^hen the question was put to her point blank that she 
had, in reality, no surname of her own. 

Emily had endeavored to find Nan Grant, m order to learn from 
her something of Gertrude’s early history; but Nan had left her 
old habitation, and, for years, nothing had been heard of her. 

Gertrude, as we have said, blushed on being asked her name 

14 * 


162 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


but replied, with dignity, that she would tell hers, provided her 
new acquaintance would return the compliment. 

“ Shan’t do it ! ” said the youth, impudently, “ and don’t care 
about knowing ycurs, either ; ” saying which, he kicked an apple 
with his foot, and walked off, still kicking it before him, leaving 
Gertrude to the conclusion that he was the most ill-bred person 
she had ever seen. 


165 


an easily 
t eeth, 


CHAPTER XX. 

i perfect woman, nobly planned. 

To warn, to comfort, and command. 

And yet a spirit still, and bright, 

With something of an angel light. 

WOBDSWCRTB 

li wa* i le twilight of a sultry September day, and, varied with 
many hours endurance of an excessive heat, unlookbd for so late 
in the season, Emily Graham sat on the front piazza of her fath- 
er’s house, inhaling a delicious and refreshing breeze, which had 
just sprung up. The western sky was still streaked with brilliant 
lines of red, the lingering effects of a gorgeous sunset, while the 
moon, now nearly at the full, and triumphing in the close of day 
and the commencement of her nightly reign, cast her full beams 
upon Emily’s white dress, and gave to the beautiful hand and arm, 
which, escaping from the draperied sleeve, rested on the side of 
her rustic arm-chair, the semblance of polished marble. 

Ten years had passed since Emily was first introduced to the 
reader ; and yet, so slight were the changes wrought by time upon 
her face and figure, that she looked scarcely any older than on 
the occasion of he*- first meeting Gertrude in Mr. Arnold’s church. 

She had even then experienced much of the sorrow of life, and 
learned how to distil from the bitter dregs of suffering a balm for 
every pain. Even then, that experience, and the blessed knowledge 
she had gained from it, had both stamped themselves upon her 
countenance : the one in a sobered and subdued expression, which 
usually belongs to more mature years ; the other, in that sweet, calm 
smile of trust and hope, which proclaims the votary c f Heaven. 

Therefore time had little power upon her, and as she was then 
w was she new ; lovely in her outward appearance, and still more 


162 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


but re P^^ ear t and life. A close observer might, however, per 
new a^ n j ier a g rea ^ er degree of buoyancy of spirit, keenness of 
merest in what was going on about her, and evident enjoyment of 
life, than she had formerly evinced ; and this was due, as Emily 
felt and acknowledged, to her recent close companionship with one 
to whom she was bound by the warmest affection, and who, by her 
lively sympathy, her constant devotion, her natural appreciation 
of the entertaining and the ludicrous, as well as the beautiful and 
the true, and her earnest and unsparing efforts to bring her much- 
loved friend into communion with everything she herself enjoyed 
had called into play faculties which blindness had rendered almost 
dormant, and become what Uncle True bade her be, eyes to her 
benefactor. 

On the present occasion, however, as Emily sat alone, shut out 
from the beautiful sunset, and unconscious of the shadows that 
played over her in the moonlight, her thoughts seemed to be sad, 
She held her head a little on one side, in a listening attitude, and, 
as often as she heard the sound of the gate swinging in the breeze, 
she would start, while a look of anxiety, and even pain, would 
cross her features. 

At length, some one emerges from behind the high fence which 
screens the garden from public gaze, and approaches the gate. 
None but Emily’s quick ear could have distinguished the light step , 
but she hears it at once, and, rising, goes to meet the new comer, 
whom we must pause to introduce, for, though an old acquaintance, 
time has not left her unchanged, and it would be haid to recog- 
nize in her our little quondam Gertrude. 

The present Gertrude — for she it is — has now become a young 
iady. She is some inches taller than Emily, and her figure is 
slight and delicate. Her complexion is dark, but clear, and ren- 
dered brilliant by the rosy hue that flushes her cheeks ; but that 
may be the effect of her rapid walk from the railroad station. 
She has taken off her bonnet, and is swinging it by the string, — a 
habit she always had as a child ; so we will acquit her of any 
coquettish desire to display an unusually fine head of hair. 

Gertrude’s eyes have retained their old lustre, and do not now 
look too large ?r >r her face ; and, if her mouth be less classically 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


165 


formed han the strict rule of beauty would commend, one can easily 
forgive tna*,, in consideration of two rows of small pearly teeth, 
which are as regular and even as a string of beads. Her neat 
dress of spotted muslin fits close to her throat, and her simple black 
mantle does not conual the roundness of her taper waist. 

What then ? Is Gertrude a beauty ? 

By no means. Hers is a face and form about which there 
would be a thousand different opinions, and out of the whole num- 
ber few would pronounce her beautiful. But there are faces 
whose ev3r- varying expression one loves to watch, — tell-tale faces, 
that speak the truth and proclaim the sentiment within ; faces that 
now light up with intelligence, now beam with mirth, now sadden 
at the tale of sorrow, now burn with a holy indignation for that 
which the soul abhors, and now, again, are sanctified by the divine 
presence, when the heart turns away from the world and itself, and 
looks upward in the spirit of devotion. Such a face was Gertrude’s. 

There are forms, too, which, though neither dignified, queenly or 
fairy-like, possess a grace, an ease, a self-possession, a power of 
moving lightly and airily in their sphere, and never being in any 
one’s way, — and such a form was Gertrude’s. 

Whatever charm these attractions might give her, — and there 
were those who estimated it highly, — it was undoubtedly greatly 
enhanced by an utter unconsciousness, on her part, of possessing 
any attractions at all. The early-engrafted belief in her own per- 
sonal plainness had not yet deserted her ; but she no longer felt 
the mortification she had formerly labored under on that account. 

As she perceived Miss Graham coming to meet her, she quick 
ened her pace, and, joining her near the door-step, where a path 
turning to the right led into the garden, passed her arm affection- 
ately over Emily’s shoulder, in a manner which the latter’s blind- 
ness, and Gertrude’s superior height and ability to act as guide, 
had of late rendered usual, and, turning into the walk which led 
from the house, said, while she drew the shawl closer around her 
blind friend, 

“ Here I an again , Emily ! Have you been alone ever since I 
went away ? ” 

“ Yes, dear, most of the time, and have been quite worried 


162 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


co think you were ravelling about in Boston this excessively warm 
day.’' 

“ It has not hurt me in the least ; I only enjoy this cool breeze 
all the more ; it is such a contrast to the heat and dust of the 
city ! ” 

“ But, Gerty,” said Emily, stopping short in their walk, “ what 
are you coming away from the house for ? You have not been to 
tea, my child.” 

“ I know it, Emily, but I don’t want any supper.” 

They walked on for some time, slowly and in perfect silence. 
At last Emily said, 

“ Well, Gertrude, have you nothing to tell me ? ” 

“ 0, yes, a great deal, but — ” 

“ But you know it will be sad news to me, and so you don’t like 
to speak it ; is it not so ? ” 

“ I ought not to have the vanity, dear Emily, to think it would 
trouble you very much ; but, ever since last evening, when I told 
you what Mr. W. said, and what I had in my mind, and you 
seemed to feel so badly at the thought of our being separated, I 
have felt almost doubtful what it was right for me to do.” 

“ And I, on the other hand, Gertrude, have been reproaching 
myself for allowing you to have any knowledge of my feeling in the 
matter, lest I should be influencing you against your duty, or, at 
least, making it harder for you to fulfil. I feel that you are right, 
Gertrude, and that, instead of opposing, I ought to do everything 
I can to forward your plans.” 

“ Dear Emily ! ” exclaimed Gertrude, vehemently, “ if yoi 
thought so from what I told you yesterday, you would be con 
vinced, had you seen and heard all that I have to-day.” 

“ Why ? are matters any worse than they were at Mrs. Sulli 
van’s ? ” 

“ Much worse than I described to you. I did not then know 
myself all that Mrs. Sullivan had to contend with ; but I have 
been at their house nearly all the time since I left home this morn- 
ing (for Mr. W did not detain me five minutes), and it realty 
does not seem to me safe for such a timid, delicate woman as Mrs 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


167 


Sullivan to 1: e alone with Mr. Cooper, now that his ;jind is in 
such a dreadful state.” 

“ But, do you think you can do any good, Gertrude ? ” 

“ I know I can, dear Emily ; I can manage him much better 
than sue cai\ and at the same time do more for his comfort and 
happiness. He is like a child now, and full of whims. When he 
can possibly be indulged, Mrs. Sullivan will please him at any 
amount of inconvenience, and even danger, to herself ; not eniy 
because he is her father, and she feels it her duty, but I actually 
think she is afraid of him, he is so irritable and violent. She 
tells me he often takes it into his head to do the strangest things, 
such as going out late at night, when it would be perfectly unsafe, 
and sleeping with his window wide open, though his room is on 
the lower floor.” 

“ Poor woman ! ” exclaimed Emily ; “ what does she do in such 
cases ? ” 

“ I can tell you, Emily, for I saw an instance of it to-day. 
When I first went in this morning, he was preparing to make a 
coal-five in the grate, notwithstanding the heat, which was becom- 
ing intense in the city.” 

“ And Mrs. Sullivan ? ” said Emily. 

“ Was sitting on the lower stair, in the front entry, crying.” 

“ Poor thing ! ” murmured Emily. 

“ She could do nothing with him,” continued Gertrude, “ and 
had given up in despair.” 

“ She ought to have a strong woman, or a man, to take care of 
him.' 

“ That is what she dreads, more than anything. She says it 
would kill her to see him unkindly treated, as he would be sure to 
be by a stranger ; and, besides, I can see that she shrinks from the 
idea of having any one in the house to whom she is unaccustomed. 
She is exceedingly neat and particular in all her arrangements, 
has always done her work herself, a.d declares she would sooner 
admit a wild beast into her family than an Irish girl.” 

“ Her new house has not been a source of much pleasure to her 
yet, has it ? ” 

‘ O, no. She was saying, to-day, how strange it seemed. 


168 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


when she had been looking forward so long to the comfort of a 
new and well-built tenement, that, just as she had moved in and 
got everything furnished to her mind, she should have this great 
trial come upon her.” 

“ It seems strange to me,” said Emily, “ that she did not sooner 
perceive its approach. I noticed, when I went with you to the 
house in E street, the failure in the old man’s intellect.” 

“ I had observed it for a long time,” remarked Gertrude, “ but 
never spoke of it to her ; and I do not think she was in the least 
aware of it, until about the time of their removal, when the 
breaking up of old association^ had a sad effect upon poor Mr. 
Cooper.” 

“ Don’t you think, Gertrude, that the pulling down of the 
church, and his consequent loss of employment, were a great 
injury to his mind ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed, I am sure of it ; he altered very much after that, 
and never seemed so happy, even while they were in the house in 

E street ; and when the owners of that land concluded to take 

it for stores and warehouses, and gave Mrs. Sullivan notice that she 
would be obliged to leave, the old sexton’s mind gave way entirely.” 

“ Sad thing ! ” said Emily. “ How old is he, Gertrude ? ” 

“ I don’t know exactly, but I believe he is very old ; I remem- ' 
ber Mrs. Sullivan’s telling me, some time ago, that he was near 
eighty.” 

“ Is he so old as that ? Then I am not surprised that these 
changes have made him childish.” 

“ 0, no. Melancholy as it is, it is no more than we may any of 
us come to, if we live to his age ; and, as he seems for the most 
part full as contented and happy as I have ever seen him appear, 
I do not lament it so much on his own account as on Mrs. Sulli- 
van’s. But I do, Emily, feel dreadfully anxious about her.” 

“ Does it seem to be so very hard for her to bear up under it ? ” 

“ I thii x it would not be, if she were well ; but there is something 
the matter with her, and I fear it is more serious than she allows, 
for she iooks very pale, and has, I know, had several alarming ill 
turns lately.” 

“ Has she consulted a physician ? ” 


THE L AMPju JlGHTES . 


m 


‘‘No; she does n’t wish for one, and insists upon it she shall 
soon be better; but I do not feel sure that she will, especially as 
she takes no care of herself ; and that is one great reason for my 
wishing to be in town as soon as possible. I am anxious to have 
Dr. J eremy see her, and I think I can bring it about without her 
knowing that he comes on her account. I ’ll have a severe cold 
iu} T self, if I can’t manage it in any other way.” 

“ You speak confidently of being in town, Gertrude ; so I sup- 
pose it is all arranged.” 

‘ 0, I have not told you, have I, about my visit to Mr. W. ? 
Dear, good man, how grateful I ought to be to him ! He has 
promised me the situation.” 

“ I had no doubt he would, from what you told me he said to 
you at Mrs. Bruce’s.” 

“You had n’t, really ! Why, Emily, I was almost afraid to 
mention it to him. I could n’t believe he would have sufficient 
confidence in me ; but he was so kind ! I hardly dare tell you 
frhat he said about my capacity to teach, you will think me so 
rain.” 

“ You need not tell me, my darling ; I know, from his own lips, 
how highly he appreciates your ability ; you could not tell me 
anything so flattering as what he told me himself.” 

“ Dear Uncle True always wanted me to be a teacher ; it was 
the height of his ambition. He would be pleased, would n’t he. 
dear Emily ? ” 

“ He would no doubt have been proud enough to see you a*, 
sistant in a school like Mr. W.’s. I am not sure, however, but h© 
would think, as I do, that you are undertaking too much. You 
expect to be occupied in the school the greater part of every 
morning, and yet you propose to establish yourself as nurse to 
Mrs. Sullivan, and guardian to her poor old father. My dear 
child, you are not used to so much care, and I shall be constantly 
troubled for you, lost your own health and strength give way.” 

“ 0, dear Emily, there is no occasion for any anxiety on my 
account ; 1 am well and strong, and fully capable of all that I 
have planned for myself. My only dread is in the thought of 
U> 


170 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


leaving you ; and the only fear I have is, that you will miss me. 
and perhaps feel as if — ” 

“ I know what you would say, Gertrude. You need not fear 
that; I am sure of your affection. I am confident you love me 
next to your duty and I would not for the world that you should 
give me the preference. So dismiss that thought from your mind 
and do not carry with you the belief that I would be selfish 
enough to desire to retain you a moment. I only wish, my dear, 
that for the present you had not thought of entering the school. 
You might then have gone to Mrs. Sullivan’s, staid as long as 
you were needed, and perhaps found, by the time we are ready tc 
start on our southern tour, that your services could be quite dis- 
pensed with ; in which case, you could accompany us on a journey 
which I am sure your health will by that time require. 

“ But, dear Emily, how could I do that? I could not propose 
myself as a visitor to Mrs. Sullivan, however useful I might intend 
to be to her ; nor could I speak of nursing to a woman who will not 
acknowledge that she is ill. 1 thought of all that, and it seemed 
to me impossible, with all the delicacy and tact in the world, to 
bring it about ; for I have been with you so long that Mrs. Sul- 
livan, I have no doubt, thinks me entirely unfitted for her primitive 
way of life. It was only when Mr. W. spoke of his wanting an 
assistant, and, as I imagined, hinted that he should like to employ 
me in that capacity, that the present plan occurred to me. I 
knew, if I told Mrs. Sullivan that I was engaged to teach there, 
and that you were not coming to town at all, but were soon gving 
south, and represented to her that I wanted a boarding-place for 
the winter, she would not only be loth to refuse me a home with 
her ; but would insist that I should go nowhere else.” 

‘ 5 And it proved as you expected ? ” 

“ Exactly ; and she showed so much pleasure at the thought of 
my being with her, that I realized still more how much she needed 
some one.” 

“ She will have a treasure in you, Gertrude ; I know that, veiy 
well.” 

“ No, indeed ! I do not hope to be of much use. The feeling 
I have is, that, however little I may be able to accomplish, it will 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


171 


be more than any one e.se could do for Mrs. Sullivar She has 
lived so retired that she has not an intimate friend in the city, 
and I do not really know of any one, except mvself, whom she 
would willingly admit under her roof. She is used to me and 
loves me ; I am no restraint upon her, and she allows me to assist 
in whatever she is doing, although she often says that 1 live a 
lady's life now, and am not used to work. She knows, too, that 
[ have an influence over her father ; and I have , — strange as it 
may seem to you, — I have more than I know how to account for 
myself 1 think it is partly because I am not at all afraid of him, 
and am firm in opposing his unreasonable fancies, and partly be 
cause I am more of a stranger than Mrs. Sullivan. But there is 
still another thing which gives me a great control over him. He 
naturally associates me in his mind with Willie ; for we were foi 
some years constantly together, both left the house at the same 
time, and he knows, too, that it is through me that the corre- 
spondence with him is chiefly carried on. Since his mind has been 
so weak, he seems to think continually of Willie, and I can at 
any moment, however irritable or wilful he may be, make him 
calm and quiet by proposing to tell him the latest news from his 
grandson. It does not matter how often I repeat the contents of 
the last letter, it is always new to him ; and you have no idea, 
Emily, what power this little circumstance gives me. Mrs. Sulli- 
van sees how easily I can guide his thoughts, and I noticed what 
a load of care seemed to be taken from her mind by merely having 
me there to-day. She looked so happy when I came away to- 
night, and spoke so hopefully of the comfort it would be during 
the winter to have me with her, that I felt repaid for any sacrifice 
it has been to me. But when I came home, and saw you, and 
thought of your going so far away, and of the length of time it 
might be before I should live with you again, I felt as if — ’ 
Gertrude could say no more. She laid her head on Emily’s 
shoulder, and wept. 

Emily soothed her with the greatest tenderness. “ We have 
been very happy together, Gerty,” said she, “ and I shall miss 
you sadly ; half the enjoyment of my life has of late years been 
borrowed from you. But T never loved you half so weJl as I do 


172 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


now, at tLe very time that we must part ; for 1 r. die sacn 
fice you are making of yourself one of the noblest and most 
important traits of character a woman can possess. I know how 
much you love the Sullivans, and you have certainly every reason 
for being attached to them, and desiring to repay your old obliga- 
tions ; but your leaving us at this time, and renouncing, without 
a murmur, the southern tour from which you expected so much 
pleasure, proves that my Gerty is the brave, good girl I always 
hoped and prayed she might become. You are in the path of 
duty, Gertrude, and will be rewarded by the approbation of your 
own conscience, if in no other way.*' 

As Emily finished speaking, they reached a corner of the gar- 
den, and were here met by a servant-girl, who had been looking 
for them to announce that Mrs. Bruce and her son were in the 
parlor, and had asked for them both. 

“ Did you get her buttons in town, Gertrude ? ” inquired Emily. 

** Yes, I found some that were an excellent match for the dress ; 
she probably wants to know what success I had ; but how can I 
go in ? ” 

“ I will return to the house with Katy, and you can go in at 
the side-door, and reach your own room without being seen. I 
will excuse you to Mrs. Bruce for the present ; and, when you 
have bathed your eyes, and feel composed, you can come in and 
report ooncerning the errand she intrusted to you.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 


Bu j had we best retire 1 I see a storm. 

Milton. 

Accordingly, when Gertrude entered the room half an horn 
afterwards, there was no evidence in her appearance of an^ 
unusual distress of mind. Mrs. Bruce nodded to her good- 
naturedly from a corner of tne sofa. Mr. Bruce rose and offered 
his chair, at the same time that Mr. Graham pointed to a vacant 
window-seat near him, and said, kindly, “ Here is a place for you, 
Gertrude.” 

Declining, however, the civilities of both gentlemen, she with- 
drew to an ottoman which stood near an open glass door, where 
she was almost immediately joined by Mr. Bruce, who, seating 
himself in an indolent attitude upon the upper row of a flight of 
steps which led from the window to the garden, commenced con- 
versation with her. 

Mr. Bruce — the same gentleman who some years before wore 
a velvet smoking-cap, and took afternoon naps in the grass — had 
recently returned from Europe, and, glorying in the renown ac- 
quired from a moustache, a French tailor, and the possession of 
a handsome property in his own right, now viewed himself with 
more complacency than ever. 

“ So you ’ve been in Boston all day, Mis^ Flint ? y 

“ Yes, nearly all day.” 

“ Did n’t you find it distressingly warm ? ” 

“ Somewhat so.” 

“ I tried to go in to attend to some busing tW mother wa* 
anxious about, and even went down to the depot ; Wt I had ti* 
give it up.” 


15 * 


C74 


THE LAMPJ T^HTER. 


“ Were you overpowered by the heat ? ” 

“ I was.’’ 

“ How unfortunate ! ” remarked Gertrude, in a half-compassion* 
ate, half-ironical tone of voice. 

Mr. Bruce looked up, to judge, if possible, from her counte 
nance, whether she were serious or not ; but, there being little 
light in the room, on account of the warmth of the evening, he 
could not decide the question in his mind, and therefore replied 
“I dislike the heat, Miss Gertrude, and why should I expose 
myself to it unnecessarily ? ” 

“ 0, I beg your pardon ; I thought you spoke of important 
business.” 

“ Only some affair of my mother’s. Nothing I felt any interest 
in, and she took the state of the weather for an excuse. If I had 
known that you were in the cars, as I have since heard, I should 
sertainly have persevered, in order to have had the pleasure of 
walking down Washington-street with you.” 

“ I did not go down Washington-street.” 

“ But you would have done so with a suitable escort,” sug- 
gested the young man. 

“ If I had gone out of my way for the sake of accompanying 
my escort, the escort would have been a very doubtful advantage,” 
said Gertrude, laughing. 

“ How very practical you are, Miss Gertrude ! Do not mean 
to say that, when you go to the city, you always have a settled 
plan of operations, and never swerve from your course ? ” 

“ By no means. I trust I am not difficult to influence when 
there is a sufficient motive.” . 

The young man bit his lip. “ Then you never act without a 
motive ; pray, what is your motive in wearing that broad-brimmed 
hat when you are at work in the garden ? ” 

“ It is an old habit, adopted some years ago from motives of 
convenience, and still adhered to, in spite of later inventions, which 
would certainly be a better protection from the sun. I must 
plead guilty, I fear, to a little obstinacy in my partiality for that 
old hat.” 

“ Why not acknowledge the truth, Miss Gertrude, and confess 


THE LAMPLIGHTER, 


17h 


that you weal it in order to look so very fanciful and picturesque 
that the neighbors’ slumbers are disturbed by the very thoughts 
of it ? My own morning dreams, for instance, as you are well 
aware, are so haunted by that hat, as seen in company with its 
owner, that I am daily drawn, as if by magnetic attraction, in the 
direction of -the garden. You will have a heavy account to settle 
with Morpheus, one of these days, for defrauding him of his rights ; 
and your conscience too will suffer for injuries to my health, 
sustained by continued exposure to early dews.” 

“ It is hard to condemn me for such innocent and unintentional 
mischief ; but, since I am to experience so much future remorse on 
account of your morning visits, I shall take upon myself the 
responsibility of forbidding them.” 

“ O ! you would n’t be so unkind ! — especially after all the 
pains I have taken to impart to you the little I know of horticul- 
ture.” 

“ Very little I think it must have been ; or I have but a little 
memory,” said Gertrude, laughing. 

“ Now, how can you be so ungrateful ? Have you forgotten 
the pains I took yesterday to acquaint you with the different 
varieties of roses ? Don’t you remember how much I had to say 
at first of damask roses and damask bloom ; and how, before I had 
finished, I could not find words enough in praise of blushes, espe- 
cially such sweet and natural ones as met my eyes while I was 
speaking ? ” 

“ I know you talked a great deal of nonsense. I hope you 
don’t think I listened to it all.” 

“ O, Miss Gertrude ! It is of no use to say flattering things 
to you : you always look upon my compliments as so many jokes.” 

“ I have told you, several times, that it was the most useless 
thing in the world to waste so much flattery upon me. 1 am glad 
you aie beginning to realize it.” 

“Well, then, to ask a serious question, where were you this 
morning ? ” 

u At what hour ? 

‘ Half-past seven.” 

On my way to Boston, in the cars,”. 


176 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


“ Is it possible ? — so early ! Why, I thought you went at ten 
Then, all th-3 time I was watching by the garden wall to get a 
chance to say good-morning, you were half a dozen miles away. 
I wish I had not wasted that hour so ; I might have spent it in 
sleeping.” 

“ Very true, it is a great pity.” 

“ And then half an hour more here this evening ! How came 
you to keep me waiting so long ? ” 

“ I ? — When ? ” 

a Why, now, to-night.” 

“ I was not aware of doing so. I certainly did not take youi 
visit to myself.” 

“ My visit certainly was not meant for any one else.” 

“Ben,” said Mr. Graham, approaching rather abruptly, and 
taking part in the conversation, “ are you fond of gardening ? I 
thought I heard you just now speaking of roses.” 

“ Yes. sir ; Miss Flint and I were having quite a discussion upon 
flowers, — roses especially.” 

Gertrude, availing herself of Mr. Graham’s approach, tried to 
make her escape and join the ladies at the sofa ; but Mr. Bruce, 
who had risen on Mr. Graham’s addressing him, saw her inten- 
tion, and frustrated it by placing himself in the way, so that she 
could not pass him without positive rudeness. Mr. Graham 
continued, “ I propose placing a small fountain in the vicinity of 
Miss Flint’s flower-garden ; won’t you walk down with me, and 
give your opinion of my plan ? ” 

“ Is n’t it too dark, sir, to — ” 

“ No, no, not at all ; there is ample light for our purpose ; this 
way, if you please ; ” and Mr. Bruce was compelled to follow 
where Mr. Graham led, though, in spite of his acquaintance with 
Paris manners, he made a wry face, and shook his head men- 
acingly. 

Gertrude was now permitted to relate to Mrs. Bruce the results 
of the shopping which she had undertaken on her account, and 
display the buttons, which proved very satisfactory. The gentle- 
men, soon after returning te the parlor, took seats near the sofa. 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


177 


ana. he company forming one group, the conversation became 
general. 

“ Mr. Graham,” said Mrs. Bruce, “ I have been questioning 
E aily about your visit to the south ; and, from the route which 
she tells me you propose taking, I think it will be a charming 
trip.” 

“ I hope so, madam, — we have been talking of it for some 
time ; it will be an excellent thing for Emily, and, as Gertrude 
has never travelled at all, I anticipate a great deal of pleasure 
for her.” 

“ Ah ! then you are to be of the party, Miss Flint ? ” 

“ Of course, of course,” answered Mr. Graham, without giving 
Gertrude a chance to speak for herself ; “we depend upon Ger- 
trude, — could n’t get along at all without her.” 

“ It will be delightful for you,” continued Mrs. Bruce, her eyes 
still fixed on Gertrude. 

“ I did expect to go with Mr. and Miss Graham,” answered 
Gertrude, “ and looked forward to the journey with the greatest 
eagerness ; but I have just decided that I must remain in Boston 
this winter.” 

“ What are you talking abuit, Gertrude ?” asked Mr. Graham. 
u What do you mean ? This is all news to me.” 

“ And to me, too, sir, or I should have informed you of it 
before. I supposed you expected me to accompany you, and 
there is nothing I ^mld like so much. I should have told you 
before of the circumstances that now make it impossible ; but 
they are of quite recent occurrence.” 

“ But we can ’t give you up, Gertrude * I won’t hear of such a 
,hing ; you must go with us, in spite of circumstances.” 

“ I fear I shall not be able to,” said Gertrude, smiling pleas- 
antly, but still retaining her firmness of expression ; “ you are 
very kind, sir, to wish it.” 

“ Wish it ! — I tell you I insist upon it. You are under my 
eare, child, and I have a right to say what you shall do.” 

Mr. Graham was beginning to get excited. Gertrude and 
0 niiy both looked troubled, but neither of them spoke. 

• 6 Give me ycir reasons, if you have any added Mr. Graham, 


178 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


vehemently, “ and let m<s know what hac put this strange notion 
nto your head.” 

“ I will explain it to you to-morrow, six.” 

'* To-morrow ! I want to know now.” 

Mrs. Bruce, plainly perceiving that a family storm was brew, 
ing, wisely rose to go. Mr. Graham suspended his wrath until 
she and her son had taken leave ; but, as soon as the door was 
closed upon them, burst forth with real anger. 

“ Now tell mo what all this means ! Here I plan my business, 
and make all my arrangements, on purpose to be able to give up 
this winter to travelling, — and that, not so much on my own 
account as to give pleasure to both of you, — and, just as every- 
thing is settled, and we are almost on the point of starting, Ger- 
trude announces that she has concluded not to go. Now, I 
should like to know her reasons.” 

Emily undertook to explain Gertrude’s motives, and ended by 
expressing her own approbation of her course. As soon as she 
had finished, Mr. Graham, who had listened very impatiently, and 
interrupted her with many a “ pish ! ” and “ pshaw ! ” burst forth 
with redoubled indignation. 

“ So Gerty prefers the Sullivans to us, and you seem to en- 
courage her in it ! I should like to know what they ’ve ever done 
for her, compared with what I have done ! ” 

“ They have been friends of hers for years, and, now that they 
are in great distress, she does not feel as if she could leave them ; 
and I confess I do not wonder at her decision.” 

“ I must say I do. She prefers to make a slave of herself in 
Mr. W.’s school, and a still greater slave in Mrs. Sullivan’s fam- 
ily, instead of staying with us, where she has always been treated 
like a lady, and, more than that, like one of my own family ! ” 

“ O, Mr. Graham ! ” said Gertrude, earnestly, “ it is not a 
matter of preference or choice, except as I feel it to be a duty.” 

“ And what makes it a duty? Just because you used to live 
in the same house with them, and that boy out in Calcutta has 
sent you home a camel ’s-hair scarf, and a cage-full of miserable 
li’:tle birds, and written you a, reat package of letters, you think 
jrou mu«t forfeit your own interests to take care of his sick rela 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


i?9 

fcions! I can’t say that I see how their claim compares with 
mine. Have n’t I given you the best of educations, and spared no 
expense either foi your improvement or your happiness ? ” 

“ I did not think, sir,” answered Gertrude, humbly, and yet 
with quiet dignity, “ of counting up the favors I had received, 
and measuring my conduct accordingly. In that case, my obli- 
gations to you are immense, and you would certainly have tho 
greatest claim upon my services.” 

“ Services ! I don’t want your services, child. Mrs. Ellis can 
do quite as well as you can for Emily, or me either ; but I like 
your company, and think it is very ungrateful in you to leave us, 
as you talk of doing.” 

“ Father,” said Emily, “ I thought the object, in giving Ger- 
trude a good education, was to make her independent of all the 
world, and not simply dependent upon us.” 

“ Emily,” said Mr. Graham, “ I tell you it is a matter of feel- 
ing, — you don’t seem to look upon the thing in the light I 
do ; but you are both against me, and I won’t talk any more 
about it.” 

So saying, Mr. Graham took a lamp, went to his study, shut 
the door hard, — not to say slammed it, — and was seen no more 
that night. 

Poor Gertrude ! Mr. Graham, who had been so kind and 
generous, who had seldom before spoken harshly to her, and had 
always treated her with great indulgence, was now deeply offend- 
ed. He had called her ungrateful ; he evidently felt that she 
had abused his kindness, and believed that he and Emily stood in 
her estimation secondary to other, and, as he considered them, 
far less warm-hearfed friends. Deeply wounded and gri fc ved, she 
hastened to say good-night to the no lass afflicted Emily, and 
seeking her own room, gave way to fee. ings tb it exhausted her 
spirit, and caused her a sleepless night. 


CHAPTEE XXII. 


Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful . 

Shak SPEARS 

Left at three years of age dependent upon the mercy and 
charity of a world in which she was friendless and alone, Ger- 
trude had, during the period of her residence at Nan Grant’s 
found little of that mercy, and still less of that charity. But, 
although her turbulent spirit rebelled at the treatment she re- 
ceived, she was then too young to reason upon the subject, or 
come to any philosophical conclusions upon the general hardness 
and cruelty of humanity ; and, had she done so, such impressions 
could not but have been effaced amid the atmosphere of love and 
kindness which surrounded her during the succeeding period 
when, cherished and protected in the home of her kind foster 
father, she enjoyed a degree of parental tenderness which rarely 
falls to the lot of an orphan. 

And having, through a similar providence, found in Emily ad- 
ditional proof of the fact that the tie of kindred blood is not 
always needed to bind heart to heart in the closest bonds of 
sympathy and affection, she had hitherto, in her unusually happy 
experience, felt none of the evils that spring from dependence 
upon the bounty of strangers. The unfriendly conduct of Mrs. 
Ellis had, at times, been a source of irritation to her; but the 
housekeeper’s power and influence in the family were limited by 
her own dependence upon the good opinion of those she served, 
and Gertrude’s patience and forbearance had at last nearly dis- 
armed her enmity. 

Erom Mr. Graham she had until now experienced only kind- 
ness. On her first coming to live with them, he had, to be sure, 
,&ken very little notice of her, and, so long as she was quiet, well- 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


181 


r>oant.;3Led, and no trouble to anybody, had been quite indifferent 
concerning her. He observed that Emily was fond of the girl 
and liked to have her with her ; and, though he wondered at her 
taste, was glad th^t she should be indulged. It was not long 
however, before he was led to notice in his daughter’s favorite a 
quickness of mind and propriety of deportment which had the 
effect of creating an interest in her that soon increased to posi- 
tive partiality, especially when he discovered her taste for gar- 
dening, and her perseverance in laboring among her flowers. He 
not only set off a portion of his grounds for her use, but, charmed 
with her success during the first summer after the appropriation 
was made, added tr the original flower-garden, and himself 
assisted in laying out and ornamenting it. Emily formed no plan 
with regard to Gertrude’s education to which she did not obtain 
a ready assent from her father; and Gertrude, deeply grateful for 
so much bounty, spared no pains to evidence her sense of obli- 
gation and regard, by treating Mr. Graham with the greatest 
respect and attention. 

But, unfortunately for the continuance of these amicable rela- 
tions, Mr. Graham possessed neither the disinterested, forbearing 
spirit of Uncle True, or the saintly patience and self-sacrifice of 
Emily. Mr. Graham was a liberal and highly respectable man ; 
he had the reputation, as the world goes, of being a remarkably 
high-minded and honorable man ; and not without reason, for his 
conduct had oftentimes justified this current report of him. But, 
alas ! he was a selfish man, and often took very one-sided views. He 
had supported and educated Gertrude, — he liked her, — she was 
the person whom he preferred for a travelling companion for 
himself and Emily, — nobody else had any claim upon her to 
compare with his, — and he either could not or would not see that 
her duty lay in any other direction. 

And yet, while he was ready to act the tyrant, he deceived 
himself with the idea that he was the best friend she had in the 
World. He was not capable of understanding that kind of 
regard which causes one to find gratification in whatever tends to 
the present or future welfare of another, without reference to 
himself or his own int< rests Acting, therefore, under the irflu 
16 


182 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


eace of' his own prejudiced and narrow sentiments, Mr. Graham 
gave way to his ill-temper, and distressed Gertrude by the first 
really harsh and severe language he had ever used towards her. 

During the long hours of a wakeful and restless night, Ger- 
trude had ample time to review and consider her own situation 
and circumstances. At first, her only emotion was one of .grief 
and distress, such as a child might feel on being reproved ; but 
that gradually subsided, as other and bitter thoughts rose up in 
her mind. “What right,” thought she, “ has Mr. Graham to treat 
me thus, — to tell me I shall go with them on this southern journey, 
and speak as if my other friends were ciphers in his estimation, 
and ought to be in my own ? Does he consider that my freedom 
is to be the price of my education, and am I no longer to be able 
to say yes or no ? Emily does not think so ; Emily, who loves 
and needs me a thousand times more than Mr. Graham, thinks I 
have acted rightly, and assured me, only a few hours ago, that it 
was my duty to carry out the plans I had formed. And my 
solemn promise to Willie ! is that to be held for nothing ? No,” 
thought she, “ it would be tyranny in Mr. Graham to insist upon 
my remaining with them, and 1 am glad I have resolved to break 
away from such chraldom. Besides, I was educated to teach, 
and Mr. W. says it is important to commence at once, while my 
studies are fresh in my mind. Perhaps, if I yielded now, and 
staid here living in luxury, I should continue to do so until 1 
lost the power of regaining my independence. It is cruel in Mr. 
Graham to try to deprive me of my free-will.” 

Bo much said pride ; and Gertrude’s heart, naturally proud, 
and only kept in check by strict and conscientious self-control 
listened a while to such suggestions. But not long. She had 
accustomed herself to view the conduct of others in that spirit 
of charity which she desired should be exercised towards her 
own, and milder thoughts soon took the place of these excited 
and angry feelings. * 

“ Perhaps,” said she to herself, as she reviewed in her mind 
the conversation of the evening, “ it is, after all, pure kindness to 
me that prompted Mr. Graham’s interference. He may think 

Emily doe> . 1 1 at 1 am undertaking too much. It is impossi 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


183 


bie fox him to know how strong my motives are, how deep I. con- 
sider my obligations to the Sullivans, and how uu eh I am 
needed by them at this time. I had no idea, either, that ut was 
such an understood thing that I was to be cf the party to the 
south • for, though Emily talked as if she took it for granted, 
Mr, Graham never spoke of .it, or asked me to go, and I could 
not suppose it would be any great disappointment to him to have 
me refuse ; but, after his planning the journey, as he says he has 
done, with reference to the enjoyment of us both. I do not wonder 
at his being somewhat annoyed. He probably feels, too, as if I 
had been under his guardianship so long that he has almost a 
right to decide upon my conduct. And he has been very indul- 
gent to me, — and I a stranger, with no claims ! Oil hate to 
have him think me so ungrateful ! 

“ Shall I then decide to give up my teaching, go to the south, 
and leave dear Mrs. Sullivan to suffer, perhaps die, while I am 
away ? No, that is impossible. I will never be such a traitor to 
my own heart, and my sense of right ; sorry as I shall be to 
offend Mr. Graham, I must not ^low fear of his anger to turn 
me from my duty.” 

Having thus resolved to brnvr th^ tempest that she well know 
she must encounter, and committed her cause to Him who judgeth 
righteously, Gertrude tried to compose herself to sleep; but 
found it impossible to obtain any untroubled rest. Scarcely had 
slumber eased her mind of the weight that pressed upon it, before 
dreams of an equally painful nature seized upon her, and startled 
her back to consciousness. In some of these visions she beheld 
Mr, Graham, angry and excited as on the previous evening, and 
mrcatening her with the severest marks of his displeasure if she 
dared to thwart his plans ; and then, again, she seemed to see 
Willie, the same boyish youth from whom she had parted nearly 
five years before, beckoning her w‘ A h a sad countenance to the 
room where his pale mother lay in a swoon, as Gertrude had a 
few weeks before discovered her. Exhausted by a succession of 
such harassing images, she at length gave up the attempt to obtain 
any rest through sleep, and, rising, seated herself at the window 
where, watching the no-v descending moon, and the first approo/d* 


184 


THE LAMPL1 3HTER. 


of dawn, she found, in quiet self-communing, the strength an<s 
courage which, she felt, would be requisite to carry her calmly 
and firmly through the following day ; a day destined to witness 
her sad separation from Emily, and her farewell to Mr. Graham, 
which would probably be of a still more distressing character. 
It may seem strange that anything more than ordinary mental 
courage and decision should be needful to sustain Gertrude under 
the present emergency. But, in truth, it required no small 
amount of both these qualities for a young girl of eighteen yeais, 
long dependent upon the liberality of an elderly man, well known 
as a stern dictator in his household, to suddenly break the bonds 
of custom and habit, and mark out a course for herself in oppo- 
sition to his wishes and intentions ; and nothing but an urgent 
motive could have led the grateful and peace-loving Gertrude to 
such a step. The tyrannical disposition of Mr. Graham was well 
understood in his family, each member of which was accustomed 
to respect all his wishes and whims ; and though he was always 
indulgent, and usually kind, none ever ventured to brave a tem- 
per, which, when excited, was violent in the extreme.' It cannot 
then be surprising that Gertrude’s heart should have almost failed 
her, when she stood, half an hour before breakfast-time, with the 
handle of the dining-room door in her hand, summoning all her 
energies for another meeting with the formidable opposer of hei 
plans. She paused but a moment, however, then opened the dooi 
and went in. Mr. Graham was where she expected to see him, 
sitting in his arm-chair, and on the breakfast-table by his side 
lay the morning paper. It had been Gertrude’s habit, for a year 
or two, to read that paper aloud to the old gentleman at thip 
same hour, an,d it was for that very purpose she had now come 

She advanced towards him with her usual “ good-morning.” 

The salutation was returned in a purposely constrained voice. 
She seated herself, and leaned forward to take the newspaper 
but he placed his hand upon it and prevented her. 

“ I was going to read the news to you, sir.” 

“ And I do not wish to have you read, or do anything else for 
me, until I know whether you have concluded to treat me with 
!.he respect 1 have a right tc demand from you.” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER* 


185 


1 certainly never intended to treat you otherwise than with 
reupect, Mr. Graham.” 

“ When gii Is or boys set themselves up in opposition to those 
older and wiser than themselves, they manifest the greatest dis- 
respect they are capable of ; but I am willing to forgive the past, 
if you assure me, as I think you will after a night’s reflection, 
that you have returned to a right sense of your duty.” 

“ I cannot say, sir, that I have changed my views with regard 
to what that duty is.” 

“ Do you mean to tell me,” asked Mr. Graham, rising from his 
chair and speaking in a tone which made Gerty’s heart quake 
in spite of her brave resolutions, “ do you mean to tell me that 
you have any idea of persisting in your folly ? ” 

“Is it folly, sir, to do right ? ” 

“ Right ! — There is a great difference of opinion between you 
and me as to what right is in this case.” 

“ But, Mr. Graham, I think, if you knew all the circumstances, 
you would not blame my conduct. I have told Emily the reasons 
that influenced me, and she — ” 

“ Don’t quote Emily to me!” interrupted Mr. Graham, as he 
walked the floor rapidly. “ I don’t doubt she ’d give her head 
to anybody that asked for it ; but I hope I know a little better 
what is due to myself; and I tell you plainly, Miss Gertrude 
Flint, without any more words in the matter, that if you leave 
my house, as you propose doing, you leave it with my displeasure ; 
and that, you may find one of these days, it is no light thing to 
have incurred, — unnecessarily, too,” he muttered, — “ as you are 
doing.” 

“I am very sorry to displease you, Mr. Graham, but — ” 

“ No, you ’re not sorry ; if you were, you would not wans 
straight in the face of my wishes,” said Mr. Graham, who began 
to observe the expression of Gertrude’s face, which, though 
grieved and troubled, had in the last few minutes acquired addi- 
tional firmness, instead of quailing beneath his severe and cutting 
words; — “ but, I have said enough about a matter which is not 
worthy of so much notice. You can go or stay, as you please. 
I wish you to understand, however, that, in the for tier ease, ] 
16 * 


m 


HE LAMPLIGHTEK. 


ut^ly with Iraw my protection and assistance from you. You 
must take care of yourself, or trust to strangers. I suppose you 
expect y our Calcutta friend will support you, perhaps come jome 
and take you under his especial care ; but, if you think so, you 
know little ,f the world. I daresay he is married to an India? 
by this time, and, if not, has pretty much forgotten you.” 

Mr. Graham,” said Gertrude, proudly, “ Mr. Sullivan wiL 
not probably return to this country for many years, and I assure 
you I neither look to him or any one else for support ; I intend 
to earn a maintenance for myself.” 

‘ A heroic resolve ! ” said Mr. Graham, contemptuously, “ and 
oronounce^ with a dignity I hope you will be able to maintain. 
Am I to c Jisider, then, that your mind is made up ? ” 

# It is> sir,” said Gertrude, not a little strengthened for the 
dreaded necessity of pronouncing her final resolution by Mr. 
Graham’s sarcastic speeches. • 

“ And you go ? ” 

u C must. I believe it to be my duty, and am therefore will- 
in/ to sacrifice my own comfort, and, what I assure you I value 
ft more, your friendship.” 

Mr. Graham did not seem to take the least notice of the latter 
j art of her remark, and before she had finished speaking so far 
>rgot his usual politeness as to drown her voice in the violent 
inging of the table-bell. 

It was answered by Katy with the breakfast and Emily and 
Mrs. Ellis coming in at the same moment, all seated themselves 
at table, and the meal was commenced in unusual silence and 
constraint, — for Emily had heard the loud tones of her father’s 
voice, and was filled with anxiety and alarm, while Mrs. Ellis 
plainly saw, from the countenances of all present, that something 
unpleasant had occurred. 

When Mr. Graham, whose appetite appeared undiminished, 
had finished eating a hearty breakfast, he turned to Mrs. Ellis, 
and deliberately and formally invited her to accompany himself 
and Emily on their journey to the south, mentioning the proba- 
bility that they should pass some weeks in Havana. 

Mrs. Ellis, who had never before heard any intimation that 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


187 


such a tour was contemplated, accepted the invitation witn pleas* 
ure and alacrity, and proceeded to ask a number 0 ** questions 
concerning the proposed route and length of absence ; while Emily 
hid her agitated face behind her tea-cup ; and Gertrude, who 
had lately been reading “ Letters from Cuba,” and was aware 
that Mr. Graham knew the strong interest she consequently felt 
in the place, pondered in her mind whether it were possible that 
he could be guilty of the small and mean desire to vex and 
mortify her. 

Breakfast over, Emily hastily sought her room, where she was 
immediately joined by Gertrude. 

In answering Emily’s earnest inquiries as to the scene which 
had taken place, Gertrude forebore to repeat Mr. Graham’s most 
bitter and wounding remarks ; for she saw, from her kind friend’s 
pained and anxious countenance, how deeply she participated in 
her own sense of wrong and misapprehension. She told her, 
however, that it was now well understood by Mr. Graham that 
she was to leave, and, as his sentiments towards her were far 
from kindly, she thought it best to go at once, especially as she 
could never be more needed by Mrs. Sullivan than at present. 
Emily saw the reasonableness of the proposal, assented to it, and 
agreed to accompany her to town that very afternoon ; for, deeply 
sensitive at any unkindness manifested towards Gertrude, she 
preferred to have her depart thus abruptly, rather than encountei 
her father’s contemptuous neglect. 

The remainder of the day, therefore, was spent by Gertrude in 
packing, and other preparations; while Emily sat by, counselling 
and advising the future conduct of her adopted darling, lamenting 
the necessity of their separation, and exchanging with her reiter- 
ated assurances of continued and undiminished affection. 

“ 0 ! if you could only write to me, dear Emily, during jour 
long absence, what a comfort it would be ! ” exclaimed Gertrude. 

“ With Mrs. Ellis’ assistance, my dear,” replied Emily, “ I 
will send you such news as I can of our movements ; but, though 
you may not be able to hear much from me, you will be ever in 
my thoughts, and I shall never forget to commend my beloved 


188 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


child to the protection and care of One who will be to her a 
better counsellor and friend than I can be.” 

In the course of the day Gertrude sought Mrs. Ellis, and 
astonished that lady by announcing that she had come to have 
a few farewell words with her. Surprise and curiosity, however 
wero soon superseded by the housekeeper’s eagerness to expatiate 
upon the kindness and generosity of Mr. Graljam, and the 
delights of the excursion in prospect. After wishing her a great 
deal of pleasure, Gertrude begged to hear from her by letter 
during her absence ; to which apparently unheard request Mrs. 
Ellis only replied by asking if Gertrude thought a thibet dress 
would be uncomfortable on the journey ; and, when it was repeated 
with still greater earnestness, she, with equal unsatisfactoriness to 
th^ suppliant for epistolary favors, begged to know how many pairs 
of under-sleeves she should probably require. Having responded 
to her questions, and at last gained her ear and attention, Gertrude 
obtained from her a promise to write one letter, which would, she 
declared, be more than she had done for years. 

Before leaving the house, Gertrude sought Mr. Graham’s study, 
m hopes that he would take a friendly leave of her ; but, on her 
telling him that she had come to bid him “ good-by,” he indis- 
tinctly muttered the simple words of that universal formula, so 
deep in its meaning when coming from the heart ; so chilling 
when uttered, as on the present occasion, by stern and nearly 
closed lips ; and, turning his back upon her, took up the tongs to 
mend his fire. 

So she went away, with a tear in her eye and sadness in her 
heart, for until now Mr. Graham had been a good friend to her. 

A far different scene awaited her in the upper kitchen, where 
she went to seek Mrs. Prime and Katy. 

“ Bless yer soul, dear Miss Gertrude ! ” said the former, stum- 
bling up the staircase which led from the lower room, and wiping 
her hands on her apron, — “ how we shall miss yer ! Why, the 
house won’t be worth livin’ in when you ’re out of it. My gra- 
cious ! if you don’t come back, we shall all die out in a fort- 
night. Why, you ’re the life and soul of the place ! But there 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


189 


1 guess you know wha; s right; so, if you must go, we must beai 
it. — though Katy and I’ll cry our eyes out, for aught I know.** 

“ Sure, Miss Gairthrude,” said Irish Katy, “ and it ’s right 
gude in you to be afther cornin’ to bid us good-by. I don’t see 
how you gets memory to think of us all, and I ’m shure yer ’ll 
never be betther off than what I wish yer. I can’t but think, 
miss, it ’ll go to help yer along, that everybody’s gude wishes 
and blessin’ goes with yer.” 

“ Thank you, Katy, thank you,” said Gertrude, much touched 
hy the simple earnestness of these good friends. “You must 
cone and see me some time in Boston ; and you too, Mrs. Prime, 
I shall depend upon it. Good-by ; ” and the good-by that tww 
fell upon Gertrude’s ear was a hearty and a true one ; it followed 
her through the hall, and as the carryall drove away she heard 
ft mingling with the rattling of the vehiele 


CHAPTER 


axi i. 


yne of hat stubborn sort he is, 

Who, if they once grow fond of an opinion. 

They call it honor, honesty and faith. 

And sooner part with life than let it g# 

Row*. 

.Passing <} ver Gertrude’s parting with Emily, her cordial recq> 
tion by Mrs. Sullivan, and her commencement of school duties 
we will look in upon her and record the events of a day in 
November, about two months after she left Mr. Graham’s. 

Rising with the sun, she made her neat toilet in a room sc 
cold that before it was completed her hands were half-benumbed ; 
nor did she, in spite of the chilling atmosphere, omit, ere she com- 
menced the labors of the day, to supplicate- Heaven’s blessing 
upon them. Then, noiselessly entering the adjoining apartment, 
where Mrs. Sullivan was still sleeping, she lit a fire, the materials 
for which had been carefully prepared the night before, in a small 
grate, and, descending the stairs with the same light footstep, per- 
formed a similar service at the cooking-stove, which stood in a 
comfortable room, where, now that the weather was cold, the 
family took their meals. The table was set, and the preparations 
for breakfast nearly completed, when Mrs, Sullivan entered, pale, 
thin and feeble in her appearance, and wrapped in a large shawl. 

“ Gertrude,” said she, “ why will you let me sleep so, mornings, 
while you are up and at work ? I believe it has happened so 
every day this week.” 

“ For the very best reason in the world, auntie ; because I 
sleep all the early part of the night, and am wide awake at day- 
break, and with you it is just the reverse. Besides, I like to gel 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


19 * 


the breakfast, I make such beautiful coffee. Icok 1 ” said she, 
pouring some inU a cup, and then lifting the lid of the coffee-pot 
and pouring it back again ; “ see how clear it is ! Don’t you long 
for some of it, this cold morning ? ” 

Mrs. Sullivan smiled, for, Uncle True having always preferred 
tea, Gertrude did not at first know how to make coffee, and had 
been obliged to come to her for instructions. 

“ Now,” said Gertrude, playfully, as she drew a comfortable 
chair close to the fire, “ I want you to sit down here and watch the 
tea-kettle boil, while I run and see if Mr. Cooper is ready to let 
me tie up his cue. * 

She went, leaving Mrs. Sullivan to think what a good girl she 
was and presently returning with the old man, who was dressed 
wPh perfect neatness, she placed a chair for him, and having wait- 
ed, ts for a child, while he seated himself, and then pinned a 
napkin about his throat, she proceeded to place the breakfast 
on the table. 

While Mrs. Sullivan poured out the coffee, Gertrude, with a 
quiet tact which rendered the action almost unobserved, removed 
the skin from a baked potato and the shell from a boiled egg, 
and, placing both on the plate destined for Mr. Cooper, handed 
him his breakfast in a state of preparation which obviated the 
difficulty the old man experienced in performing these tasks for 
himself, and spared Mrs. Sullivan the anxiety she always felt at 
witnessing his clumsiness and sadly-increasing carelessness on 
those points of neatness so sacred in her eyes. Poor Mrs. Sulli- 
van had no appetite, and it was with difficulty Gertrude persuaded 
her to eat anything; a few fried oysters, however, unexpectedly 
placed before her, proved such a temptation that she was induced 
to taste and finally to eat several, with a degree of relish she 
rarely felt, lately, for any article of food. As Gertrude gazed at 
her languid face, she realized, more than ever before, the change 
which had come over the active, energetic little woman ; and, con- 
fident. that nothing but positive disease could have effected such 
a transformation, she resolved that not another day should pass 
without her seeing a physician. 

Breakfast over, there were dishes to wash, rooms to be put ir 


192 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


order, dinner to be decided on and partially prepared ; and all 
this Gertrude exerted herself and saw accomplished, chiefly 
through her own labor, before she went to rearrange her dress, 
previous to her departure for the school, where she had now been 
some weeks installed as assistant teacher. A quarter before 
nine she looked in at the kitchen door, and said, in a cheering tone, 
to the old man, who was cowering gloomily over the fire, 

“ Come, Mr. Cooper, won’t you go over and superintend the 
new church a little while, this morning ? Mr. Miller will be ex- 
pecting you ; he said yesterday that he depended on your company 
when he was at work. ” 

The old man rose, and taking his great-coat from Gertrude, 
put it on with her assistance, and accompanied her in a mechanical 
sort of way, that seemed to imply a great degree of indifference 
whether he went or stayed. As they walked in silence down 
the street, Gertrude could not but revolve in her mind the singular 
coincidence which had thus made her the almost daily companion 
of another infirm old man ; nor could she fail to draw a compari- 
son between the genial, warm-hearted Uncle True, and the gloomy, 
discontented Paul Cooper, who, never, as we have said, possessing 
a genial temperament, now retained, in his state of mental imbe- 
cility, his old characteristics in an exaggerated form. Unfavorable 
as the comparison necessarily was to the latter, it did not diminish 
the kindness and thoughtfulness of Gertrude towards her present 
charge, who was in her eyes an object of sincere compassion. 
They soon reached the new church of which Gertrude had spoken, 
— a handsome edifice, built on the site of the old building in which 
M**. Cooper had long officiated as sexton. It was not yet finished, 
and a number of workmen were at this time engaged in the com- 
pletion of the interior. 

A man with a hod-full of mortar preceded Gertrude and her 
companion up the steps which led to the main entrance, but 
stopped inside the porch, on hearing himself addressed by name 
and, laying down his burden, turned to respond to the well-known 
voice. 

“ G ood-morning, Miss Flint,” said he. “I hope you’re very 
well, this fine day. Ah ! Mr. Cooper, you ’ve come to help n.c a 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


193 


Ittk , I soe ; — that ’s right ! We can’t go on very wel. without 
you- - t you’re so used to the place. Here, dr, if you’ll eome 
with me, 1 ’ll show you what has been done since you were here 
last ; I want to know how you think we get along.” 

So saying, he was walking away with the old sexton ; but Ger- 
trude followed, and detained him a moment, to ask if he would do 
her the favor to see Mr. Cooper safe home when he passed Mrs. 
Sullivan’s nouse on his way to dinner. 

Certainly, Miss Flint,” replied the man, “ with all the pleasure 
in the world , ne has usually gone with me pretty readily, when 
you have left him in my care.” 

Having obtained this promise, Gertrude hastened towards the 
school, rejoicing in the certainty that Mr. Cooper would be safe 
and well amused during the morning, and that Mrs. Sullivan, 
freed from all responsibility concerning him, would be left to the 
rest and quiet she so much needed. 

This cordial coadjutor in Gertrude’s plan of diverting and 
occupying the old man's mind was a respectable mason, who had 
often been in Mr. Graham’s employ, and whose good-will and 
gratitude Gertrude had won by the kindness and attention she 
had shown his family during the previous winter, when they were 
sick and afflicted. In her daily walk past the church, she had 
frequently seen Mr. Miller at his work, and it occurred to her 
that, if she could awaken in Mr. Cooper’s mind an interest in the 
new structure, he might find amusement in coming there and 
watching the workmen. She had some difficulty in persuading 
him to visit a building to the erection of which he had been ve- 
hemently opposed, not only because it was inimical to his interests, 
but on account of the strong attachment he had for the old place 
of worship. Once there, however, he became interested in the 
work, and, as Mr. Miller took pains to nake him comfortable, 
and even awakened in him the belief tha' he was useful, he grad- 
ually acquired a habit of passing the greater part of every morning 
m watching the men engaged in their various branches of industry. 
Sometimes Gertrude called for him on her return from school; and 
sometimes, as on the present occasion, Mr. Miller undertook t< 
accompany him home. 

IT 


194 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


Since Gertrude had been at Mrs. Sullivan' s there was a very 
perceptible alteration in Mr. Cooper. He was much more man- 
ageable, looked better contented, and manifested far less irritability 
than he had previously done ; and this favorable change, together 
with the cheering influence of Gertrude’s society, had for a time pro- 
duced a proportionately beneficial effect upon Mrs. Sullivan ; but, 
within the last few days, her increased debility, and one or two 
sudden attacks of faintness, had awakened all, and more than all, 
of Gertrude’s former fears. She had left home with the determin 
ation, soon as she should be released from her school duties, to 
seek Dr. Jeremy and request his attendance ; and it was in order 
to secure leisure for that purpose that she had solicited Mr. Me- 
ier’s superintending care for Mr. Cooper. 

Of Gertrude’s school-duties we shall say nothing, save that 
she was found by Mr. W. fully competent to the performance 
of them, and that she met with those trials and discouragements 
only to which all teachers are more or less subjected, from the 
idleness, obstinacy, or stupidity of their pupils. On this day, 
however, she was, from various causes, detained to a later hour 
than usual, and the clock struck two at the very moment 
that she was ringing Dr. Jeremy’s door-bell. The girl who 
opened the door knew Gertrude by sight, having often seen her at 
her master’s house ; and, telling her that, though the doctor was 
just going to dinner, she thought he would see her, asked her into 
the office, where he stood, with his back to the fire, eating an 
apple, as it was his invariable custom to do before dinner. He 
laid it down, however, and advanced to meet Gertrude, holding out 
both his hands. “ Gertrude Flint, I declare ! ” exclaimed he 
“ Why, I ’m glad to see you, my girl. Why have n’t you been 
here before, I should like to know ? ” 

Gertrude explained that she was living with friends, one of 
whom was very old, the other an invalid ; and that so much of her 
time was occupied in school chat she had no opportunity for 
visiting. 

“ Poor excuse ! ” said the doctor ; “ poor excuse ! But. now 
we ’ve got you here, we shan’t let you go very soon ; ” and, going 
to the foot of the staircase, he called, in the loudest possible tone 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


195 


0? voice, “Mrs. Jerry! Mrs. Jerry! come! — come down to din- 
ner as quick as you can, and put on your best cap, — we ’ve got 
company. — Poor soul ! ” added he, in a bwer tone, addressing 
himself to Gertrude, and smiling good-naturedly, “ she can’t hurry, 
can she, Gerty? — she’s fat.” 

Gertrude now protested against staying to dinner, declaring she 
must hasten home, and announcing Mrs. Sullivan’s illness and the 
object of her visit. 

“ An hour can’t make much difference in such a case,” insisted 
the doctor. “ You must stay and dine with me, and then I ’ll go 
wherever you wish, and take you with me in the buggy.” 

G ertrude hesitated ; the sky had clouded over, and a few flakes 
of snow were falling ; she should have an uncomfortable walk ; 
and, moreover, it would be better for her to accompany the doctor, 
as the street in which she lived was principally composed of new 
houses, not yet numbered, and he might, if he were alone, have 
some difficulty in finding the right tenement. 

At this stage of her reflections, Mrs. Jeremy entered. Fat she 
certainly was, very uncommonly fat, and flushed too with her 
unwonted haste, and the excitement of anticipating the company 
of a stranger. She kissed Gertrude in the kindest manner, and 
then, looking round and seeing that there was no one else present 
exclaimed, glancing reproachfully at the doctor, 

“ Why, Dr. Jerry ! — an’t you ashamed of yourself? I never 
will believe you again ; you made me think there was some great 
stranger here,” 

“ And, pray, Mrs. Jerry, who ’s a greater stranger in this hoase 
than Gerty Flint ? ” 

“ Sure enough ! ” said Mrs. Jeremy. “ Gertrude is a stranger, 
and I Ve got a scolding in store for her on that very account ; but, 
you know, Dr. Jerry, I shouldn’t have put on my lilac-and-pink 
for Gertrude to see ; she likes me just as well in my old yellow, if 
she did tell me, when I bought it, the saucy girl, that I ’d selected 
the ugliest cap in Boston. Do you remember that, Gerty ? ” 

Gerty laughed heartily at the recollection of a very amusing 
scene that took place at the milliner’s when she wer.o shopping 
with Mrs. Jeremy. “But, come, Gerty,” continued that lady 


196 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


“ dinner ’s 1 3 ady ; take off your cloak and bonnet, and come inte 
the dining-room ; the doctor has got a great deal to say, and haa 
been wanting dreadfully to see you.” 

They had been sitting some minutes without a word’s having 
been spoken, beyond the usual civilities of the table, when the doc- 
tor, suddenly laying down his knife and fork, commenced laugh- 
ing, and laughed till the tears came into his eyes. Gertrude 
looked at him inquiringly, and Mrs. Jeremy said, “ There Ger- 
trude ? — - for one whole we^k he had just such a laughing-fit, two 
or three times a day. I was as much astonished at first as you 
are; and, I confess, I don’t quite understand now what could 
have happened between him and Mr. Graham that was so very 
funny.” 

“ Come, wife,” said the doctor, checking himself in his merri- 
ment ; “ don’t you forestall my communication. I want to tell 
the story myself. I don’t suppose,” continued he, turning towards 
Gertrude, “ you ’ve lived five years at Mr. Graham’s, without 
finding out what a cantankerous, opinionative, obstinate old hulk 
he is ? ” 

“ Doctor ! ” said Mrs. J eremy, reprovingly, and shaking her 
bead at him. 

“ I don’t care for winking or head-shaking, wife ; I spea. » my 
mind, and that ’s the conclusion I ’ve come to with regard t<S Mr. 
Graham ; and Gertrude, here, has done the same, I have n’t a par- 
ticle of doubt, only she ’s a good girl, and won’t say so.” 

“ I never saw anything that looked like it,” said Mrs. Jeremy, 
“ and I ’ve seen as much of him as most folks. I meet him in 
the street almost every day, and he looks as smiling as a basket 
of chips, and makes a beautiful bow.” 

“ I daresay,” said the doctor ; “ Gertrude and I know what 
gentlemanly manners he has when one does not walk in the very 
teeth of his opinions, — eh, Gertrude ? — but when one does — v 

“ In talking politics, for instance,” suggested Mrs. J eremy 
“ It ’s your differences with him on politics that have set you 
against him so.” 

“ No it is n’t,” replied the doctor. “ A man may get angry 
\alking politics, and be a pretty good-natured man too. in the 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


197 


mala I get angry myself on politics, but that is Yt the sc rt of 
thing I have reference to at all. It ’s Graham ’s wanting to lay 
down the law to everybody that comes within ten niles of him 
that I can’t endure ; his dictatorial way of acting, as if he were 
the Grand Mogul of Cochin China. I thought he ’d improved of 
late years ; he had a serious lesson enough in that sad affair of pool 
Philip Amory’s ; but, fact, I believe he ’s been trying the old 
game again. Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” shouted the good doctor, leaning 
forward, and giving Gertrude a light tap on the shoulder, — 
“ was n’t I glad when I found he ’d met at Iasi with a reasonable 
opposition ? — and that, too, where he least expected it ! ” 

Gertrude looked her astonishment at his evident knowledge of 
l\e misunderstanding between herself and Mr. Graham; and iu 
answer to that look he continued, “ You wonder where I picked 
up my information, and I ’ll tell you. It was partly from Graham 
himself ; and what diverts me is to think how hard the old chap 
tried to hide his defeat, and persuade me that he ’d had his own 
way after all, when I saw through him, and knew as well as he 
did that he ’d found his match in you.” 

“ Dr. Jeremy,” interposed Gertrude, “ I hope you don i 
think — ” 

“ No, my dear, I don't think you a professed pugilist ; but I 
insider you a girl of sense — one who knows what ’s right — and 
will do what ’s right, in spite of Mr. Graham, or anybody else ; 
and when you hear my story you will know the grounds on which 
I formed my opinion with regard to the course things had taken, 
and the reasons I have for understanding the state of the case 
rather better than Graham meant I should. One day, — perhaps it 
was about two months ago — you may remember the exact time 
better than I do, — I was summoned to go and see one of Mr. 
W.’s children, who had an attack of croup. Mr. W. was talking 
with me, when he was called away to see a visitor ; and, on his 
return, he mentioned that he had just secured your services in his 
school. I was not surprised, for I knew Emily intended you for 
a teacher, and I was thankful you had got so good a situation. I 
had hardly left Mr. W.’s door, however, before I encountered Mr 
Graham, and he entertained me, as w# went down the street, with 
17 * 


108 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


an account of his plans for the winter. 4 But Gertrude Fiint is 
not going with you,’ said I. — ‘ Gertrude ! ’ said he ; c certainly she 
is.’ — ‘Are you sure of that ? I asked. ‘ Have you invited her ? ’ — 
Invited her ! — No,’ was his answer ; ‘ hut, of course, I know she 
will go, and be glad enough of the opportunity; it isn’t every 
girl in her situation that is so fortunate.’ Now, Gerty, I felt a 
little provoked at his way of speaking, and I answered, in nearly 
as confident a tone as his own, ‘ I doubt, myself, whether she will 
accept the invitation.’ Upon that, Mr. Dignity straightened up. 
and such a speech as he made ! I never can recall it without 
being amused, especially when I think of the come-down that fol- 
lowed so soon after. I can’t repeat it ; but, goodness, Gertrude ! 
one would have thought, to hear him, that it was not only impos- 
sible you should oppose his wishes, but actual treason in me to 
suggest such a thing. Of course, I knew better than to tell what 
I had just heard from Mr. W., but I never felt a greater curiosity 
about anything than I did to know how the matter would end. 
Two or three times I planned to drive out with my wife, see Emily, 
and hear the result ; but a doctor never can call a day his own, 
and I got prevented. At last, one Sunday, I heard Mrs. Prime’s 
voice in the kitchen (her niece lives here), and down I went to 
make my inquiries. That woman is a friend of yours, Gertrude, 
and pretty sharp where you are concerned. She told me the truth, 
I rather think; though not, perhaps, all the particulars. It was 
not more than a day or two after that before I saw Graham 
4 Ah ! ’ said I ; ‘ when do you start? ’ — ‘ To-morrow,’ replied he. — 
‘ Keally,’ I exclaimed ‘ then 7 shan’t see your ladies again. Will 
you take a little package from me to Gertrude ? ’ — ‘ I know nothing 
about Gertrude ! ’ said he, stifily. — ‘ What ! ’ rejoined I, affecting the 
greatest surprise, ‘ has Gertrude left you 2 ’ — ‘ She has,’ answered 
he. — ‘ And dared,’ continued I, quoting his own words, 4 to treat 
you with such disrespect, — to trifle so with your dignity ? ’ — 4 Dr. 
Jeremy ! ’ exclaimed he, 4 1 don’t wish to hear that young person 
mentioned ; she has behaved as ungratefully as she has unwisely. 
— 4 Why, about the gratitude, Graham,’ said I, 4 1 believe you said 
Jt would only be an additional favor on your part if you took her 
with you, and I can’* say but what I think it is wisdom ii her tc 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


199 


make herself independent at home. But I really am sorr} fcr you 
and Emily ; you will miss her so much.’ — ‘We can dispense with 
your sympathy, sir,’ answered lie, ‘ for that which is no loss/ ~ 

‘ Ah ! really ! ’ I replied ; ‘ now, I was thinking Gertrude’s society 
would be quite a loss.’ — ‘ Mrs. Ellis goes with us,’ said he, with a 
marked emphasis, that seemed to say she was a person whose com- 
pany compensated for all deficiencies. — Ah ! ’ said I, ‘ charming 
woman, Mrs. Ellis ! ’ Graham looked annoyed, for he is aware 
that Mrs. Ellis is my antipathy. 

“ Well, you ought to have known better, Dr. Jerry,” said 
his kind-hearted wife, “ than to have attacked a man so on his 
weak point ; it was only exciting his temper for nothing.” 

“ I was taking up the cudgels for Gertrude, wife.” 

“ And I don’t believe Gertrude wants you to take up the cudg- 
els for her. I have no manner of doubt that she has the kindest 
of feelings towards Mr. Graham, this blessed minute.” 

“ I have, indeed, Mrs. Jeremy,” said Gertrude ; “ he has been 
a most generous and indulgent friend to me.” 

“ Except when you wanted to have your own way,” suggested 
the doctor. 

“ Which 1 seldom did, when it was in opposition to his 
wishes.” 

“ And what if it were ? ” • 

“ I always considered it my duty to submit to him, until, at last 
a higher duty compelled me to do otherwise.” 

“And then, my dear,” said Mrs. Jeremy, “ I daresay it pained 
70U to displease him ; and that is a right woman’s feeling, and 
one that Dr. Jerry, in his own heart, can’t but approve of, though 
one would think, to hear him talk, that he considered it pretty in a 
young girl to take satisfaction in browbeating an old gentleman. 
But, don’t let us talk any more about it ; he has had his say, 
and now it ’s my turn. I want to hear how you are situated, 
Gerty, where you live, and how you like teaching.” 

Gertrude answered all these questions ; and the doctor, who had 
heard Mrs. Sullivan spoken of as a friend of True’s and Gerty’s, 
at the time when he attended the former, made many inquiries 
concerning the state of her health. It was by v his time begin 


200 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


ning to snow fast, and Gertrude’s anxiety to return home u 
good season being very manifest to her kind host and hostess 
they urged no further delay, and, after she had given many 3 
promise to repeat her visit on the earliest opportunity, she drove 
away with tne doctor 


CHAPTJEtt X X i 'V 


No simplest duty is forgot ; 

Life so dim and lowly spot 
That doth not in her sunshine share. 

Lowell. 

H _ have beei. thinking,’ ’said Gertrude, as she drew nc^tr bong* 
il how we shall manage, doctor, so as not to alarm Mrs. Sullivan. 

“ What ’s going to alarm her ? ” asked the doctor. 

“You, if she knows at once that you are a physician. I tninh 
[ had better introduce you as a friend, who brought me home ic 
the storm.” 

“ 0 ! so we are going to act a little farce, are we ? Stage- 
manager, Gertrude Flint — unknown stranger, Dr. Jeremy. I ’m 
ready. What shall I say first ? ” 

“ I leave that to a wiser head than mine, doctor, and trust 
entirely to your own discretion to obtain some knowledge of her 
symptoms, and only gradually disclose to her that you are a 
physician.” 

‘ Ah, yes ! pretend, at first, to be only a private individual of 
a very inquiring mind. I think I can manage it. ” 

They went in. As they opened the door, Mrs. Sullivan rose 
from her chair with a troubled countenance, and hardly waited 
for the introduction to Gertrude’s friend before she turned to her 
and asked, with some anxiety, if Mr. Cooper were not with them. 

“ No, indeed,” replied Gertrude. “ Has n’t he come home ? ” 

Upon Mrs. Sullivan’s saying that she had not seen him since 
morning, Gertrude informed her, with a composure she was far 
from feeling, that Mr. Miller had undertaken the care of him. 
and could, undoubtedly, account for his absence. Sh<? ' lould seel 
kim at once. 


202 


THE LAMPL1 IIETWI. 


i% O I ’m so sorry ’ said Mrs. Suhivaa, 1 that you should have 
to go out again in such a storm ! but I feel very anxious about 
grandpa — don’t you, Gerty ? ” 

“ Not very ; I think he is safe in the church. But I ’ll go for 
him at once ; you know, auntie, I never mind the weather.” 

“ Then take my great shawl, dear.” And Mrs. Sullivan went 
to the entry -closet for her shawl, giving Gertrude an opportunity 
to beg of Dr. Jeremy that he would await her return; for she 
knew that any unusual agitation of mind would often occasion an 
attack of faintness in Mrs. Sullivan, and Was afraid to have her 
left alone, to dwell with anxiety and alarm upon Mr. Cooper’s 
prolonged absence. 

It was a very disagreeable afternoon, and already growing 
dark. Gertrude hastened along the wet side-walks, exposed to 
the blinding storm (for the wind would not permit her to carry 
an umbrella), and, after passing through several streets, gained 
the church. She went into the building, now nearly deserted by 
the workmen, saw, at once, that Mr. Cooper was not there, and 
was beginning to fear that she should gain no information con- 
cerning him, when she met Mr. Miller coming from the gallery. 
He looked surprised at seeing her, and asked if Mr. Cooper had 
not returned home. She answered in the negative, and he then 
informed her that his utmost efforts were insufficient to persuade 
the old man to go home at dinner-time, and that he had there- 
fore taken him to his own house ; he had supposed, however, that 
long before this hour he would have been induced to allow one 
of the children to accompany him to Mrs. Sullivan’s. 

As it now seemed probable that he was still at Mr. Miller's, 
Gertrude took the direction (for the family had moved within a 
year, and she did not know where to seek them), and, defining 
the company of the friendly mason, whom she was unwilling to 
take from his work, proceeded thither at once. After another 
uncomfortable walk, and some difficulty in finding the right street 
and house, she reached her destination. She knocked at the out- 
side door ; but there was no response, and, after waiting a mo- 
'te&nt, she opened it and went in. Through another door at the 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


203 


right, there was the sound of children’s voices, and so much noise 
that she believed it impossible to make herself heard, and, there 
fore, without further ceremony, entered the room. A band of 
startled children dispersed at the sight of a stranger, and 
ensconced themselves in corners ; and Mrs. Miller, in dismay at 
the untidy appearance of her kitchen, hastily pushed back a 
clothes-horse against the wall, thereby disclosing to view the very 
person Gertrude had come to seek, who, in his usual desponding 
attitude, sat cowering over the fire. But, before she could 
advance to speak to him, her whole attention was arrested by 
another and most unexpected sight. Placed against the side of 
the room, directly opposite the door, was a narrow bed, in which 
some person seemed to be sleeping. Hardly, however, had Ger 
trude presented herself in the doorway, before the figure suddenly 
raised itself, gazed fixedly at her, lifted a hand as if to ward off 
her approach, and utierea a piercing shriek. 

The voice and countenance were not to be mistaken, and Ger- 
trude, pale and trembling, felt something like a revival of her 
<*dd dread, as she beheld the well-known features of Nan Grant. 

“ Go away ! go away ! ” cried Nan, as Gertrude, after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation, advanced into the room. Again Gertrude 
paused, for the wildness of Nan’s eyes and the excitement of her 
countenance were such that she feared to excite her further. 

Mrs. Miller now came forward, and interfered. “ Why, Aunt 
Nancy ! ” said she, “ what is the matter ? This is Miss Flint, one 
of the best young ladies in the land.” 

w No, ’t an’t ! ” said Nan, fiercely. “ I know better ! ” 

Mrs, Miller now drew Gertrude aside, into the shadow ot 
the clothes-horse, and conversed with her in an under tone, 
while Nan, leaning on her elbow, and peering after them into the 
dim corner to which they had retreated, maintained a watchful, 
listening attitude. Gertrude was informed that Mrs. Miller was 
a niece o f Ben Grant’s, but had seen nothing of him or his wife 
for years, until, a few days previous, Nan had come there in a 
state of the greatest destitution, and threatened with the fever 
under which she was now laboring. “ I could not refuse her a 
shelter,” laid Mrs. Miller ; but, as you see, I have no accommo 


206 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


rhe social and entertaining physician, that, although he had, in 
his unguarded discourse, accidentally disclosed his profession 
she allowed him *:o question her upon the state of her hialth, with 
out any of the a_arm she had nervously fancied she should feel at 
the very sight of a doctor. By the time Gertrude returned, he 
had made himself well acquainted with the case, and was prepared 
on Mrs. Sullivan’s leaving the room to provide dry clothes for her 
father, to report to Gertrude his opinion. 

‘‘Gertrude,” said he, as soon as the door was shut, “that’s a 
very sick woman.” 

“ Do you think so, Dr. Jeremy ? ” said Gertrude, much alarmed, 
and sinking into the nearest ^hair. 

“ I do,” replied he, thoughtfully. “ I wish to mercy I had seen 
her six months ago ! ” 

“ Why doctor ! Do you date her illness so far back as that ? ” 

“Yes, and much further. She has borne up under the gradual 
progress of a disease which is now, I fear, beyond the aid of med- 
ical treatment.” 

“Dr. Jeremy,” said Gertrude, in tones of great distress, “you 
do not mean to tell me that auntie is going to die, and leave me 
and her poor old father, and without ever seeing Willie again, 
too ! 0, I had hoped it was not nearly so bad as that ! ” 

“ Do not be alarmed, Gertrude,” said the doctor, kindly. “ I 
did not mean to frighten you ; — she may live some time, yet. I 
can judge better of her case in a day or two. But it is absolutely 
unsafe for you to be here alone with these two friends of yours, — 
to say nothing of its overtasking your strength. Has not Mrs. 
Sullivan the means to keep a nurse, or even a domestic ? She tells 
me she has no one.” 

“ Yes, indeed,” answered Gerty; “her son supplies her wants 
most, generously. I know that she never draws nearly the whole 
of the amount he is anxious she should expend.” 

“ Then you must speak to her about getting some one to assist 
you at once ; for, if you do not, I shall.” 

“ I intend to,” said Gertrude. “ I have seen the necessity for 
Borne time past ; but she has such a dread of st ungers that I hated 
to propose it.” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


207 


k Nonsense,” said the doctor ; “ that’s only imaginaiioi in her, 
phe would soon get used to being waited upon.” 

Mrs. Sullivan now returned, and Gertrude, giving an account 
of her unexpected rencounter with Nan Grant, begged Dr. Jeremy, 
who knew the particulars of her own early life, and had frequently 
icard of Nan, to go the next day and see her. “ It will be a visit 
k n* charity,” said she, “ for she is probably penniless, and, though 
Haying with your old patients the Millers, she is but distantly 
tonneetcd, and has no claim upon them. That never makes any 
difference with you, however, I know verv well.” 

“Not a but, not a bit,” answered the doctor. “ I ’ll go and see 
ner to-nigkt, it the case require it, and to-merrow I shall look in 
«50 report she is, and hear the rest of what Mrs. Sullivan 
was telling me ucout her wakeful nights. But, Gertrude, do you 
go, child, and change your wet shoes and stockings. I shall have 
you on my hands, next.” 

Mrs. Sullivan was delighted with Dr. Jeremy, and when he way 
gone eagerly sounded his praise. “ So different,” said she, “ from 
common doctors (a portion of humanity for which she seemed to 
have an unaccountable aversion) ; so sociable and friendly ! Why 
I felt, Gertrude, as if I could talk to him about my sickness as 
freely as I could to you.” 

Gertrude readily joined in the praises bestowed upon her much- 
valued Stifled and it was tea-time before Mrs. Sullivan was weary 
of the suoject. After the evening meal was over, and Mr. Cooper 
much weaned with the fatigues of the day, had been persuaded to 
retire to rest, white Mrs. Sullivan, comfortably reclining on the 
sofa, was enjoying what she always termed her happiest hour, 
Gcrtiude broached tile subject recommended by Dr. Jeremy. 
Contrary to her expectations, Mrs. Sullivan no longer objected to 
ine proposal of introducing a domestic into the family. She was 
convinced of her own incompetency to perform any active labor, 
and was equally opposed to the exertion on Gertrude’s part which 
had, during the last week, been requisite. Gertrude suggested 
Jane Miller as a girl remarkably well suited to their wants, and 
it was agreed that she should be applied for on the fof owing 
morning. 


208 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


One more glance at Gertrude, and we shall have followed her 
to the conclusion of the day. She is alone. It is ten o’clock, and 
the house is still Mr. Cooper is sound asleep. Gertrude has 
just listened at his door, and heard his loud breathing. Mrs. Sul- 
livan, under the influence of a soothing draught recommended by 
Dr. Jeremy, has fallen into an unusually quiet slumber. The 
little Calcutta birds, ten in number, that occupy a large cage in 
the window, are nestled, side by side, on their slender perch, in a 
close, unbroken row, and Gertrude has thrown a warm covering 
over them, that they may not suffer from the cold night-air. She 
has locked the doors, made all things safe, fast and comfortable, 
and now sits down to read, to meditate, and pray. Her trials 
and cares are multiplying. A great grief stares her in the face, 
and a great responsibility ; but she shrinks not from either. No ! 
on the contrary, she thanks God that she is here ; that she had the 
resolution to forsake pleasure and ease, and, in spite of her own 
weakness and man’s wrath, to place herself in the front of life’s 
battle, and bravely wait its issues. She thanks God that she 
knows where to look for help; that the bitter sorrows of her child* 
nood and early youth left her not without a witness of His love 
who can turn darkness into light, and that no weight can now 
overshadow her whose gloom is not illumined by rays from the 
throne of God. But, though her heart is brave and her faith firm 
she has a woman’s tender nature ; and, as she sits alone, she weeps 
— weeps for herself, and for him who, far away in a foreign land, 
is counting the days, the months and years, which shall restore 
him to a mother he is destined never to see again. With the 
recollection, however, that she is to stand in the place of a child 
to that parent, and that hers is the hand that must soothe the 
pillow of the invalid, and minister to all her wants, comes the 
stern necessity of self-control, — a necessity to which Gertrude has 
tong since learned to submit, — and, rallying all her calmness and 
fortitude, she wipes away the blinding tears, commends herself tc 
Him who is strength to the weak and comfort to the sorrowing 
and, soothed by the communion of her spirit with the Father of 
spirits, she seeks her couch, and, worn out by the varied menta 
and b$ lily fatigues of her day’s experience, follows the rest of th# 
household t( the land cf dreams. 


‘>11 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Some say that gleams of a remoter world 
Visit the soul in sleep. Shelley. 

It was a fortunate thing for Gertrude that Thanksgi ring week 
Was approaching, as that was a vacation time at Mr. W ,’s school, 
:md she would thus be more at leisure to attend to her multiplied 
eares. She considered herself favored, too, in obtaining the ser- 
vices of Jane, who willingly consented to come and help Miss 
Gertrude. She did not, she said, exactly like the idea of living 
oat, but could n’t refuse a young lady who had been so good to 
them in times past. Gertrude had feared that, with Nan Grant 
sick in the house, Mrs. Miller would not be able to give up her 
eldest daughter ; but Mary, a second girl, having returned home 
unexpectedly, one of them could be very conveniently spared. 
Under Gertrude’s tuition, Jane, who was neat and capable, was 
able, after a few days, to relieve Mrs. Sullivan of nearly all her 
household duties, and so far provide for many of her personal 
wants as to leave Gertrude at liberty to pay frequent visits to the 
sick room of Nan, whose fever, having reached its height, rendered 
her claim for aid at present the most imperative. 

We need hardly say that, in Gertrude’s still vivid recollection 
of her former sufferings under the rule of Nan, there remained 
nothing of bitterness or a spirit of revenge. If she remembered 
the past, it was only to pity and forgive her persecutor ; if she 
meditated upon the course she should herself pursue towards hei 
once hated tyrant, it was only to revolve in her mind how she could 
best serve and comfort her. 

Therefore, night after night found her watching by the bed-side 
of the sick woman, who, though still delirious, had entirely lost 
IS* 


20 S 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


the feai and dread she had at first seemed to feel at her presence 
Nan tdked much of little Gerty, — sometimes in a way that led 
Gertrude to believe herself recognized, but more frequently as if 
die child were supposed to be absent ; and it was not until a long 
time after that Gertrude was led to adopt the correct supposition, 
which was, that she had been mistaken for her mother, whom she 
much resembled, and whom, though tended in her last sickness by 
Nan herself, the fevered, diseased, and conscience- stricken sufferer 
believed had come back to claim her child at her hands. It was 
only the continued assurances of good-will on Gertrude’s part, and 
her unwearied efforts to soothe and comfort her, that finally led 
Nan to the belief that the injured mother had found her child in 
health and safety, and was ignorant of the wrongs and unkindness 
she had endured. 

One night — it was the last of Nan’s life — Gertrude, who had 
scarcely left her during the previous day, and was still maintain- 
ing her watch, heard her own name mingled with those of others 
in a few rapid sentences. She approached the bed and listened 
intently, for she was always in hopes, during these partly inco- 
herent ravings, to gain some information concerning her own early 
life. Her name was not repeated, however, and for some time 
the muttering of Nan’s voice was indistinct. Then, suddenly start- 
ing up and addressing herself to some imaginary person, she shouted 
aloud, “ Stephie ! Stephie ! give me back the watch, and tell me 
what you did with the rings ! — They will ask — those folks ! — and 
what shall I tell them ? ” Then, after a pause, during which her 
eyes were fixed steadily upon the wall, she said, in a more feeble 
out equally earnest voice, “ No, no, Stephie, I never ’ll tell. - — 
I never , never t will ! ” The moment the words had left her lips, 
she started, turned, saw Gertrude standing by the bed-side, and. 
with a frightened look, shrieked, rather than asked. Hid you 
hear? Hid you hear? — You did,” continued she, “and you’ll 
tell ! 0, if you do ! ” She was here preparing to spring from 

the bed, but, overcome with exhaustion, sunk back on the pillow 
Summoning both Mr. and Mrs Miller, who, half expecting to be 
called up during the night, had lain down in the next room, thq 
agitated Gertrude believing that her own presence was too excit 


fHE LAMPLIGHTER. 


211 


mg, left the now dying woman to their care, and sought in anothei 
part o f the house to calm her disturbed mind and disordered 
nerves Learning, about an hour afterwards, from Mrs. Miller, 
that Nan had become comparatively calm, but was utterly pros* 
'rated in strength, and seemed near her end, Gertrude thought it 
best not to enter the room again ; and, sitting down by the kitchen- 
stove, pondered in her mind the strange scene she had witnessed. 
Day was just dawning when Mrs. Miller came to tell her that 
Nan had breathed her last. 

Gerty’s work of mercy, forgiveness and Christian love, being 
thus finished, she hastened home to recruit her wasted strength, 
and fortify herself, as she best might, for the labor and suffering 
yet in store for her. 

And it was no ordinary strength and fortitude that she needed 
to sustain her through a period such as persons in this world are 
often called upon to meet, when scenes of suffering, sickness and 
death, follow each other in such quick Succession, that, ere one 
shock can be recovered from, and composure of mind restored, 
another blow comes to add its force to the already overwhelming 
torrent. In less than three weeks from the time of Nan Grant’s 
ieath, Paul Cooper was smitten by the destroyer’s hand, and, 
ifter a brief illness, he, too, was laid to his last rest ; and though 
the deepest feelings of Gertrude’s heart were not in either case 
fully awakened, it was no slight call upon the mental and physi- 
cal endurance of a girl of eighteen to bear up under the self 
imposed duties occasioned by each event, and that, too, at a 
^ime when her mind was racked by the apprehension of a new 
and far more intense <?nVf. Emily’s absence was also a sore trial 
to her, for she was accustomed to rely upon her for advice and 
counsel, and, in seasons of peculiar distress, to learn patience and 
submission from one who was herself a living exemplification of 
fc th virtues. Only one letter had been received from the travel' 
iers, and that, written by Mrs. Ellis, contained little that was 
satisfactory. It was written from Havana, where they were 
hoarding in a house kept by an American lady, and crowded with 
visitors from Boston, New York, and other northern cities. 

4< It an’t so very pleasant, after all, Gertrude,” wrctf M**, 


212 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


Ellis, “ and I only wish we were safe home again ; and not on 
own account, either, so much as Emily’s. She feels kind of strang« 
here ; and no wonder, for it ’s a dreadful uncomfortable sort of a 
place. The wi* lows have no glass about them, but are grated 
just like a prison ; and there is not a carpet in the house, nor a 
fireplace, though sometimes the mornings are quite cold. There ’s 
a widder here, with a brother and some nieces. The widder is a 
flaunting kind of a woman, that I begin to think, if you ’ll be 
Lieve it, is either setting her cap for Mr. Graham, or means to 
make an old fool of him. She is one of your loud-talking women, 
that dress up a good deal, and like to take the lead ; and Mr. 
Graham is just silly enough to follow after her party, and go to 
all sorts of rides and excursions ; — it ’s so ridiculous , — and he 
over sixty-five years old ! Emily and I have pretty much done 
going into the parlor, for these gay folks don’t take any sort of 
notice of us. Emily does n’t say a word, or complain a bit, bui 
I know she is not happy here, and would be glad to be back in 
Boston ; and so should I, if it was n’t for that horrid steamboat. 
I liked to have died with seasickness, Gertrude, coming out: and 
1 dread going home so, that I don’t know what to do.” 

Gertrude wrote frequently to Emily ; but, as Miss Graham was 
dependent upon Mrs. Ellis’ eye-sight, and the letters must, there- 
fore, be subject to her scrutiny, she could not express her inner- 
most thoughts and feelings as she was wont- to do in conversation 
with her sympathizing and indulgent friend. 

Every India mail brought news from William Sullivan, who, 
prosperous in business, and rendered happy, even in his exile, by 
the belief that the friends he loved best were in the enjoyment 
of the fruits ( of his exertions, wrote always in his accustomed 
strain of cheerfulness. 

One Sabbath afternoon, a few weeks after Mr. Cooper’s death, 
found Gertrude with an open letter in her hand, the numerou? 
postmarks upon the outside of which proclaimed from whence a 
came. It nad that day been received, and Mrs. Sullivan, as she 
lay stretched upon her couch, had been listening for the third 
time to the reading of its contents. The bright hopes expressed 
by her son, and the gay tone in which he wrote, all unconscious, 


the lamplighter. 


212 


ha ye\ v* xa, of the cloud of sorrow that was gathering for him, 
formed so striking a contrast to her own reflections, that she lay 
with her eyes closed, and oppressed with an unwonted degree of 
sadness ; while Gertrude, as she glanced at the passage in which 
Willie dilated upon the “joy of once more clasping in his amis 
the dear little mother whom he so longed to see again,” and then 
turned her gaze upon the wasted form and faded cheek of that 
mother, felt an indescribable chill at her heart. Dr. Jeremy’s 
first fears were all confirmed, and, her disease still further aggra- 
vated by the anxiety and agitation which attended her father’s 
sickness and death, Mrs. Sullivan was rapidly passing away. 

Whether she were herself aware that this was the case, Ger- 
trude had not yet been able to determine. She had never spoken 
upon the subject, or intimated in any manner a conviction of her 
approaching end ; and Gertrude, as she surveyed her placid 
countenance, was almost inclined to believe that she was yet 
deceiving herself with the expectation of recovery. 

All doubt on this point was soon removed ; for, after remaining 
a short time engaged in deep thought, or perhaps in prayer, Mrs. 
Sullivan opened her eyes, fixed them upon her young attendant, 
and said, in a calm, distinct voice, 

“ Gertrude, I shall never see Willie again f ” 

Gertrude made no reply. 

“ I wish to write and tell him so myself,’ she continued 
“ or, rather, if you will write for me, as you have done eo many 
times already, I should like to tell you what to say ; and I feel 
that no time is to be lost, for I am failing fast, and may not long 
have strength enough left to do it. It will devolve upon you, my 
child-, to let him know when all is over ; but you have had too 
many sad duties already, and it will spare you somewhat to have 
me prepare him to hear bad news. Will you commence a letter 
to-day ? ” 

“ Certainly, auntie, if you think it best.” 

“ I do, Gerty. What you wrote by the last mail was chiefly 
concerning grandpa’s sickness and death ; and there was nothing 
mentioned which would be likely to alarm him on my account 
was there ? ” 


214 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


N )thmg at all.” 

“ Then it is quite time he should be forewarned, poor boy ! ] 

do not need Dr. Jeremy to tell me that I am dying.” 

“ Did he tell you so ? ” asked Gertrude, as she went to hei 
desk, and began to arrange her writing-materials. 

“ No, Gerty ! he was too prudent for that ; but I told him % 
ind he did not contradict me. You have known it some time, 
ave you not ?” inquired she, gazing earnestly in the face of Ger- 
trude, who had returned to the couch, and, seated upon the edge 
of it, was bending over the invalid, and smoothing the hair from 
her forehead. 

“ Some weeks,” replied Gertrude, as she spoke imprinting a 
kiss upon the pale brow of the sufferer. 

“ Why did you not tell me ? ” 

“ W~hy should I, dear auntie ? ” said Gertrude, her voice trem- 
bling with emotion. “ I knew the Lord could never call you at a 
dine when your lamp would not be trimmed and burning.” 

“ Feebly, it burns feebly ! ” said the humble Christian. 

“ Whose, then, is bright,” responded Gertrude, “ if yours be 
Have you not, for years past, been a living lesson of piety 
and patience ? Unless it be Emily, auntie, I know of no one who 
seems so fit for heaven.” 

“ O, no, Gerty ! I am a sinful creature, full of weakness ; 
much as I long to meet my Saviour, my earthly heart pines with 
the vain desire for one more sight of my boy, and all my dreams 
of heaven are mingled with the aching regret that the one bless- 
ing I most craved on earth has been denied me.” 

“ 0, auntie ! ” exclaimed Gertrude, “ we are all human ! Until 
the mortal puts on immortality, how can you cease to think of 
Willie, and long for his presence in this trying hour ? It cannot 
be a sin, — that which is so natural ! ” 

“ I do not know, Gerty ; perhaps it is not ; and, if it be, I 
trust, before I go hence, I shall be blessed with a spirit of perfect 
submission, that will atone for the occasional murmuring of a 
mother s heart ! Head to me, my dear, some holy words of com- 
fort ; you always seem to open the good book at the passage 1 
most need. It is sinful, indeed, in me, Gertrude, to indulge the 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


215 


east repining, ole^sed as I am in the love and c^re one whc. 
is dear to me as a daughter ! ” 

Gertrude took ner Bible, and, opening it at the Gospel of St. 
Mark, her eye fell at once upon the account of our Saviour’s 
agony in the garden of Gethsemane. She rightly believed that 
nothing could be more appropriate to Mrs. Sullivan’s state of 
mind than the touching description of the struggle of our Lord’s 
humanity ; nothing mor^. likely to soothe her spirit, and reconcile 
her to the occasional rebellion of her own mortal nature, than the 
evident contest of the hrman with the divine so thrillingly nar- 
rated by the disciple; and that nothing could be more inspiring 
than the example of that holy Son of God, who ever to His thrice- 
repeated prayer that, if possible, the cup might pass from him, 
added the pious ejaculation, “Thy will, not mine, be done.” 
Without hesitation, therefore, she read what first met her glance, 
and had the satisfaction of seeing that the words were not without 
effect ; for, when she had finished, she observed that as Mrs. Sul- 
livan lay still and calm upon her couch, her lips seemed to be 
repeating the Saviour’s prayer. Not wishing to disturb her medi- 
tations, Gertrude made no reference to the proposed letter to 
Willie, but sat in perfect silence, and about hajf an hour after- 
ward Mrs. Sullivan fell asleep. It was a gentle, quiet slumber, 
and Gertrude sat and watched with pleasure the peaceful, happy 
expression of her features. Darkness had come on before she 
awoke, and so shrouded the room that Gertrude, who still sat 
there, was invisible in the gloom. She started, on hearing hex 
name, and, hastily lighting a candle, approached the couch. 

“ O, Gertrude ! ” said Mrs. Sullivan, “ I have had such a 
beautiful dream ! Sit down by me, my dear, and let me tell it to 
you ; it could not have been more vivid, if it had all been reality 
I thought I was sailing rapidly through the air, and, for somt 
time, I seemed to float on and on, over clouds and among bright 
starfe. The motion was so gentle that I did not grew weary, 
though in my journey I travelled over land and sea. At last I 
law beneath me a beautiful city , with churches, towers, monu- 
ments, and throngs of gay people mu\ing in every direction. As 
1 drew nearer, I could distinguish t he faaes of those numerous 


Z18 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


ftien and women, and among them, in a crowded street, there was 
one who looked like Willie. I followed him, and soon felt sure 
it was he. He looked older than when we saw him last, and much 
as I have always imagined him, since the descriptions he has given 
in his letters of the change that has taken place in his appear- 
ance. I followed him through several streets, and at last he 
turned into a fine, large building, which stood near the centre of 
the city. I went in also. We passed through large halls and 
beautifully-furnished rooms, and at last stood in a dining-saloon, 
in the middle of which was a table covered with bottles, glasses, 
and the remains of a rich dessert, such as I never saw before. 
There was a group of young men round the table, all well dressed, 
and some of them fine-looking, so that at first I was quite charmed 
with their appearance. I seemed, however, to have a strange 
power of looking into their hearts, and detecting all the evil there 
was there. One had a very bright, intelligent face, and might 
have been thought a man of talent — and so he was ; but I could 
see better than people usually can, and I perceived, by a sort of 
instinct, that all his mind and genius were converted into a means 
of duping and deceiving those who were so foolish or so ignorant 
as to be ensnared ; and, in a corner of his pocket, I knew he had 
a pair of loaded dice. 

“ Another seemed by his wit and drollery to be the charm 
of the company ; but I could detect marks of intoxication, and 
felt a certainty that in less than an hour he would cease to be the 
master of his own actions. 

“ A third was making a vain attempt to look happy ; but his 
very soul was bared to my searching gaze, and I was aware of 
the fact that he had the day before lost at the gaming-table all 
his own and a part of his employer’s money, and was tortured 
with anxiety lest he might not this evening be fortunate enough 
to win it back. 

“ There were many others present, and all, more or less sunk in 
dissipation, had reached various stages on the road to ruin. Their 
faces, however, looked animated and gay, and, as Willie glanced 
from one to another, he seemed pleased and attracted. 

“ One of them offered him a seat at the table, and all forged 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


217 


him take it. He did so, and the young man at his right filled 
a glass with bright wine and handed it to him. He hesitated, 
then took it and raised it to his lips. J ust then I touched him on 
the shoulder. He turned, saw me, and instantly the glass fell 
from his hand and was broken into a thousand pieces. I beck- 
oned, and he immediately rose and followed me. The gay circle 
he had left called loudly upon him to return ; one of them even 
laid a hand upon his arm, and tried to detain him ; but he would 
not listen or stay — he shook off the hand that would have held 
him, and we went on. Before we had got outside the building, 
the man whom I had first noticed, and whom I knew to be the 
most artful of the company, came out from a room near the door, 
which he had reached by some other direction, and, approaching 
Willie, whispered in his ear. Willie faltered, turned, and would 
perhaps have gone back; but I placed myself in front of him, held 
up my finger menacingly, and shook my head. He hesitated no 
longer, but, flinging aside the tempter, rushed out of the door, 
and was down the long flight of steps before I could overtake him. 
I seemed, however, to move with great rapidity, and soon found 
myself taking the lead, and guiding my son through the intricate, 
crowded streets of the city. Many were the adventures we en- 
countered, many the snares we found laid for the unwary in every 
direction. * More than once my watchful eye saved the thoughtless 
boy by my side from some pitfall or danger, into which, without 
me, he would have surely fallen. Occasionally I lost sight of 
him, and was obliged to turn back ; now he had been separated 
from me by the crowd, and consequently missed his way, and 
now he had purposely lingered to witness or join in the amuse- 
ments of the gay populace. Each time, however, he listened to 
my warning voice, and we went on in safety. 

“ At last, however, in passing through a brilliantly -lighted street, 
— for it was now evening, — I suddenly observed that he was 
absent from my side. I went backwards and forwards, but he was 
nowhere to be seen. For an hour I hunted the streets, and called 
him by name ; but there was no answer. I then unfolded my 
wings, and, soaring high above the crowded town, surveyed the 
19 


218 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


whole, hoping that in that one glance I might, as 1 had at first 
done, detect my boy. 

“I was not disappointed. In a gorgeous hall, dazzlingly lit, 
and filled with gayety and fashion, I beheld Willie. A brilliant 
young creature was leaning on his arm, and I saw into her heart, 
and knew that she was not blind to his beauty or insensible to his 
attractions. But, 0 ! I trembled for him now ! She was lovely 
and rich, and it was evident to me, from the elegance of her dress 
and the attention she attracted, that she was also fashionable and 
admired. I saw into her soul, however, and she was vain, proud, 
cold-hearted, and worldly; and, if she loved Willie, it was his 
beauty, his winning manners, and his smile that pleased her — 
not his noble nature, which she knew not how to prize. As they 
promenaded through the hall, and she, whom crowds were praising, 
gave all her time and thoughts to him, I, descending in an invisi- 
ble shape, and standing by his side, touched his shoulder, as I 
had done before. He looked around, but, before he could see his 
mother’s face, the siren’s voice attracted all his attention. Again 
and again I endeavored to win him away ; but he heard me not. 
At length she spoke some word that betrayed to my high-minded 
boy the folly and selfishness of her worldly soul. I seized the 
moment when she had thus weakened her hold upon him, and, 
clasping him in my arms, spread my wings and soared far, fai 
away, bearing with me the prize I had toiled after and won. As 
we rose into the air, my manly son became in my encircling arms 
a child again, and there rested on my bosom the same little head, 
with its soft, silken curls, that had nestled there in infancy. Back 
we flew, over sea and land, and paused not until on a soft, grassy 
slope, under the shade of green trees, I thought I saw my darling 
Gerty, and was flying to lay my precious boy at her feet, when I 
awoke, pronouncing your name. 

“ x\nd now, Gertrude, the bitterness of the cup I am called 
upon to drink is passed away. A blessed angel has indeed minis- 
tered unto me. I no longer wish to see my son again on earth, 
for I am persuaded that my departure is in perfect accordance 
with the schemes of a merciful Providence. I now believe that 
Willie’s living mother might be powerless to turn him from tempt* 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


219 


ation and evil ; but the spirit of that mother will be mighty 
still, and in the thought that she, in her home beyond the skies, is 
ever watching around his path, and striving to lead him in the 
straight and narrow way, he may find a truer shield from danger, 
a firmer rest to his tempted soul, than she could have been while 
yet on earth. Now, 0 my Father, I can say, from the depths of 
my heart, ‘ Thy will, not mine, be done ! ’ ” 

From this time until her death which took place about a month 
afterward, Mrs. Sullivan’s mind remained in a state of perfect 
resignation and tranquillity. As she said, the last pang had lost 
its bitterness. In the letter which she dictated to Willie, she 
expressed her perfect trust in the goodness and wisdom of Provi- 
dence, and exhorted him to cherish the same submissive love foi 
the All-wise. She reminded him of the early lessons she had 
taught him, the piety and self-command which she had inculcated, 
and made it her dying prayer that her influence might be in- 
creased, rather than diminished, and her presence felt to be a 
continual reality. She gave the important caution to one who had 
faithfully struggled with adversity to beware of the dangers and 
snares which attend prosperity, and besought him never to dis- 
credit or disgrace his childhood’s training. 

After Gertrude had folded the letter, which she supposed com- 
pleted, and left the house to attend to those duties in school which 
she still continued regularly to perform, Mrs. Sullivan re-opened 
the nearly-covered sheet, and, with her own feeble and trembling 
hand, recounted the disinterested, patient, loving devotion of Ger- 
trude. “ So long,” said she, “ my son, as you cherish in your 
heart the memory of your grandfather and mother, cease not to 
bestow all the gratitude of which that heart is capable upon one 
whose praises my hand is too feeble to portray.” 

So slow and gradual was the decline of Mrs. Sullivan, that her 
death at last came as an unexpected blow to Gertrude, who, 
though she saw the ravages of disease, could not realize that a 
termination must come to their work. 

In the dead hours of the night, with no one to sustain and 
encourage her but the frightened and trembling Jane, did she 
watch the departing spirit of her much-loved friend. “ Are you 


220 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


afraid to see me die, Gertrude ? ” asked Mrs. Sullivan, about an 
hour before her death. On Gertrude’s answering that she was 
not, — “ Then turn me a little towards you,” said she, “ that yout 
face, my darling, may be the last to me of earth.” 

It was done, and, with her hand locked fast in Gertrude’s, and 
a look that spoke of the deepest affection, she expired. 


CHAPTER XXYI. 


But, whatsoe’er the weal or woe 
That Heaven across her lot might throw, 

Full well her Christian spirit knew 
Its path of virtue, straight and true. 

Joanna Baillie. 

Not until her work of love was thus ended did Gertrude become 
conscious that the long continuance of her labors by night and 
day had worn upon her frame and utterly exhausted her strength. 
For a week after Mrs. Sullivan was laid in he* grave, Dr. Jeremy 
was seriously apprehensive of a severe illness for Gertrude. But, 
after struggling with her dangerous symptoms for several days, 
she rallied, and, though still pale and worn by care and anxiety, 
was able to resume her classes at school, and make arrangements 
for providing herself with another home. 

Several homes had been already offered to her, several urgent 
invitations given, with a warmth and cordiality which made it 
difficult to decline their acceptance ; but Gertrude, though deeply 
touched by the kindness thus manifested towards her in her lone- 
liness and desolation, preferred to abide by her previously-formed 
resolution to seek for herself a permanent boarding-place, and, 
when the grounds on which she based her decision were under- 
stood by her friends, they approved her course, ceased to 
importune her, and manifested a sincere wish to be of service, by 
lending their aid to the furtherance of her plans. 

Mrs. Jeremy was at first disposed to feel hurt and wounded by 
Gertrude’s refusal to come to them without delay, and consider 
herself established for any length of time that she chose to re- 
main ; and the doctor himself was so peremptory with his, ‘ f Come, 
Gertrude, come right home with us — don’t say a word! ‘ that 
19 * 


222 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


she was afraid lest, in her weak state -of health, she should he 
actually carried off, without a chance to remonstrate. But, after 
he had taken upon himself to give Jane orders about packing her 
clothes and sending them after her, and then locking up the house 
and going home herself, he gave Gertrude an opportunity to ex 
postulate, and present her reasons for wishing to decline the 
generous proposal. 

Adi her reasoning upon general principles, however, proved 
insufficient to convince the warm-hearted couple. “ It was all 
nonsense about independent position. She would be perfectly 
independent with them, and her company would be such a pleas- 
ure that she need feel no hesitation in accepting their offer, and 
might be sure she would herself be conferring a favor, instead of 
being the party obliged.’ ’ At last she was compelled to make 
use of an argument which had greatly influenced her own mind, 
and would, she felt sure, carry no little weight with it in the 
doctor’s estimation. 

“ Dr. Jeremy,” said she, li I hope you will not condemn in me 
a motive which has, I confess, strengthened my firmness in this 
matter. I should be unwilling to mention it, if I did not know 
that you are so far acquainted with the state of affairs between 
Mr. Graham and myself as to understand, and perhaps in some 
degree sympathize with, my feelings. You know that he was 
opposed to my leaving them and remaining here this winter, and 
must suspect that, when we parted, there was not a perfectly 
good understanding between us. He hinted that I should never 
be able to support myself, and should be driven to a life of 
dependence ; and, since the salary which I receive from Mr. W. is 
sufficient for all my wants, I am anxious to be so situated, on Mr. 
Graham’s return, that he will perceive that my assurance, or boast 
(if I must call it so) , thaf I could earn my own living, was not 
without foundation.” 

“ So Graham thought that, without his sustaining power, you 
would soon come to beggary — did he? Wich your talents, too! 
— that’s just like him ! ” 

“ 0, no, no ! ” replied Gertrude, “ I did not say that; but I 
seemed to him a mere child, and he did not realize that, in giving 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


223 


me an education, lie bad, as it were, paid my expenses in advance. 
It was very natural he should distrust my capacity — he had 
never seen me compelled to exert myself.” 

“ I understand — I understand,” said the doctor. “ He thought 
you would be glad enough to come back to them ; — yes, yes, just 
like him ! ” 

“ Well, now,” said Mrs. Jeremy, “ I don’t believe he thought 
any such thing. He was provoked, and did n’t mind what he 
said. Ten to one he will never think of it again, and it seems to 
me it is only a kind of pride in Gertrude to care anything about 
it.” 

“ I don’t know that, wife,” said the doctor. “If it is pride, it ’s 
an honorable pride, that I like ; and I am not sure but, if I were 
in Gertrude’s place, I should feel just as she does; so I shan’t 
urge her to do any other ways than she proposes. She can have 
a boarding-place and yet spend a good share of her time with 
us, what with running in and out, coming to spend days, and so 
on ; and she does n’t need to be told that, in case of any sick* 
ness or trouble, our doors are always open to her.” 

“ No, indeed,” said Mrs. Jeremy ; “ and, if you feel set about 
it, Gerty dear, I am sure I shall want you to do whatever 
pleases you best ; but one thing I do insist on, and that is, that 
you leave this house, which must look dreary enough to you now, 
this very day, go home with me, and stay until you get recruited.” 

Gertrude, gladly consenting to a short visit, compromised the 
matter by accompanying them without delay ; and it was chiefly 
owing to the doctor’s persevering skill and ca^e bestowed upon 
his young guest, and the kind and motherly nursing of Mrs. 
Jeremy, that she escaped the illness which had so severely 
threatened her. 

Mr. and Mrs. W., who had felt great sympathy for Ger 
trude, in consequence of the acquaintance they had had with the 
trying nature of her winter’s experience, pressed her to come to 
their house, and remain until the return of Mr. Graham and 
Emily ; but, on being assured by her that she was quite unaware 
of the period of their absence, and should^ not probably reside 
with them for the future, they were satisfied that she acted with 


224 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


wisdom and judgment in at once providing herself with an inde- 
pendent situation. 

Mr. and Mrs. Arnold, who had been constant in their atten- 
tions both to Mrs. Sullivan and Gertrude, and were the only 
persons, except the physician, who bad been admitted to the sick 
room of the invalid, felt that they had a peculiar claim to the 
guardianship and care of the doubly-orphaned girl, and were not 
slow to urge upon her to become a member of their household, 
and accept of their protection, limiting their invitation, as the 
W.’s had done, to the time when Emily should be back from the 
south. Mr. Arnold’s family, however, being large, and his house 
and salary small in proportion, true benevolence alone prompted 
this proposal ; and, on Gertrude’s acquainting his economical and 
prudent wife with the ample means she enjoyed from her own 
exertions, and the decision she had formed of procuring an inde- 
pendent home, she received the warm approbation of both, and 
found in the latter an excellent adviser and assistant. 

Mrs. Arnold had a widowed sister, who was in the habit of 
adding to her moderate income by receiving into her family, as 
boarders, a few young ladies, who came to the city for purposes 
of education. Gertrude did not know this lady personally, but 
had heard her warmly praised ; and she indulged the hope that, 
through her friend, the clergyman’s wife, she might obtain with 
her an agreeable and not too expensive residence. In this she 
was not disappointed. Mrs. Warren had fortunately vacant, at 
this time, a large and cheerful front chamber; and, Mrs. Arnold 
having recommended Gertrude in the warmest manner, suitable 
terms were agreed upon, and the room immediately placed at her 
disposal. Mrs. Sullivan had bequeathed to her all her furniture, 
a pa v t of which had lately been purchased, and was, in accord- 
ance with Willie’s injunctions, most excellent, both in material 
and workmanship ; and Mrs. Arnold and her two eldest daughters 
insisted that, in consideration of her recent fatigue and bereave- 
ment, she should consent to attend only to her school duties, and 
leave to them the task of furnishing her room with such articles 
as she preferred to have placed there, and supei intending the 
packing away of all other movables ; for Gertrude was unwilling 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


225 


that anything should be sold. It was a great relief to be thus 
spared the cruel trial of seeing the house her lost friend had 
taken so much pleasure and pride in stripped and left desolate , 
and though, on first entering her apartment at Mrs. Warren’s, a 
deep sadness crept into her heart at the sight of the familiar fur- 
niture, she could not but think, as she observed the neatness, 
care, and taste with which everything had been arranged for her 
reception, that it would be a sin to repine and call one’s self 
wretched and alone in a world which contained hearts so quick 
to feel, and hands so ready to labor, as those that had interested 
themselves for her. 

On entering the dining-room the first evening after she took 
up her residence at Mrs. Warren’s, she expected to meet only 
strangers at the tea-tuble, but was agreeably disappointed at the 
sight of Fanny Bruce, who, left in Boston while her mother and 
brother were spending the winter in travelling, had now been 
several weeks an inmate of Mrs. Warren’s house. Fanny was a 
school-girl, twelve or thirteen years of age ; and having, for some 
summers past, been a near neighbor to Gertrude, had been in the 
habit of seeing her frequently at Mr. Graham’s, had sometimes 
begged flowers from her, borrowed books, and obtained assistance 
in her fancy-work. She admired Gertrude exceedingly ; had 
hailed with great delight the prospect of knowing her better, as 
she hoped to do at Mrs. Warren’s; and when she met the gaze 
of her large, dark eyes, and saw a smile of pleasure overspread 
her countenance at the sight of a familiar face, she felt embold- 
ened to come forward, shake hands, and beg that Miss Flint 
would sit next her at the table. 

Fanny Bruce was a girl of good disposition and warm heart, 
but she had been much neglected by her mother, whose chief 
pride was in her son, the same Ben of whom we have previously 
spoken. She had often been left behind in some boarding-house, 
while her pleasure-loving mother and indolent brother passed 
their time in journeying ; and had not always been so fortunately 
situated as at present. A sense of loneliness, a want of sym* 
pathy in any of her pursuits, had been a source of great unhap- 
piness to the poor child, who labored under the painfal conscious* 


226 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


ness that but little interest was felt by any one in her improve 
ment or happiness 

Gertrude had not been long at Mrs. Warren’s before she 
observed that Fanny occupied an isolated position in the family. 
She was a few years younger than her companions, three dressy 
misses, who could not condescend to admit her into their clique ; 
and Mrs. Warren’s time was so much engrossed by household 
duties that she took but little notice of her. Her apparent lone* 
liness could not fail to excite the compassion of one wh<i wan 
herself suffering from recent sorrow and bereavement; and, 
although the quiet and privacy of her own room were, at this 
time, grateful to Gertrude’s feelings, pity for poor Fanny induced 
her to invite her frequently to come and sit with her, and she 
often so far forgot her own griefs as to exert herself in providing 
entertainment for her young visitor, who, on her part, considered 
it privilege enough to share Gertrude’s retirement, read her books, 
and feel confident of her friendship. During the month of 
March, which was unusually stormy, Fanny spent almost every 
evening with Gertrude ; and she, who at first felt that she was 
making a sacrifice of her own comfort and ease by giving another 
such constant access to her apartment, came, at last, to realize 
the force of Uncle True’s prophecy, that, in her efforts for the 
happiness of others, she would at last find her own ; for Fanny’s 
lively and often amusing conversation drew Gertrude from the 
contemplation of her trials, and the interest and affection she 
awakened saved her from the painful consciousness of her solitary 
situation. 

April arrived, and still no further news from Emily. Ger- 
trude’s heart 'ached with a vain longing to once more pour out 
her griefs on the bosom of that dear friend, and find in her 
consolation, encouragement, and support. She longed to tell her 
how many times during the winter she had sighed for the gentle 
touch of the soft hand which was wont to rest so lovingly 
on her head, the sound of that sweet voice whose very tones 
were comforting. For some time Gertrude wrote regularly, but of 
late she had not known where to direct her letters ; and since 
Mrs. Sullivan’s death there had been no communication between 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


227 


bei anti the travellers. She was sitting at her window, one even* 
ing, thinking of that group of friends whom she had loved with 
a daughter’s and a sister’s love, and who were now separated 
from her by distance, or that greater barrier, death, when she 
was summoned below stairs to see Mr. Arnold and his daughter 
Anne. 

After the usual civilities and inquiries, Miss Arnold turned to 
Gertrude and said, “ Of course you have heard the news, Ger- 
trude ?” * 

“ No,” replied Gertrude, “ I have heard nothing special.” 

“What!” exclaimed Mr. Arnold, “have you not heard of 
Mr. Graham’s marriage? ” 

Gertrude started up in surprise. “Do you really mean so, 
Mr. x\rnold ? Mr. Graham married ! When ? To whom ? ” 

“ To the widow Holbrook, a sister-in-law of Mr. Clinton’s ; she 
has been staying at Havana with a party from the north, and 
the Grahams met her there.” 

“ But, Gertrude,” asked Miss Arnold, “ how does it happen you 
had not heard of it ? It is in all the newspapers — ‘ Married in 
New Orleans, J. H. Graham, Esq., of Boston, to Mrs. Somebody 
or other Holbrook.’ ” 

“ I have not seen a newspaper for a day or two,” replied Ger» 
trude. 

“ And Miss Graham’s blindness, I suppose, prevents her writ- 
ing,” said Anne ; “ but I should have thought Mr. Graham would 
have sent wedding compliments.” 

Gertrude made no reply, and Miss Arnold continued, laugh- 
ingly, “I suppose his bride engrosses all his attention.” 

“ Do you know anything of this Mrs. Holbrook? ” asked Ger- 
trude. 

“ Not much,” answered Mr. Arnold. “ I have seen her 
occasionally at Mr. Clinton’s. She is a handsome, showy woman, 
fond of society, I should think.” 

“ I have seen her very often,” said Anne. She is a coarse, 
noisy, dashing person, — just tho one to make Miss \2mily misep 
able.” 


228 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


Gertrude locked distressed, and Mr. Arnold glanced reprov* 
ingly at his daughter. 

“ Anne,” said he, “ are you sure you speak advisedly? ” 

“ Belle Clinton is my authority, father. I only judge from 
what I used to hear her say at school about her Aunt Bella , as 
she always used to call her.” 

“ Did Isabel represent her aunt so unfavorably ? ” 

41 Not intentionally,” replied Anne; “she meant the greatest 
praise, but I never liked anything she told us about her.” 

“We will not condemn her until we can decide upon acquaint- 
ance,” said Mr. Arnold, mildly ; “ perhaps she will prove the 
very reverse of what you suppose her.” 

“ Can you tell me anything concerning Emily? ” asked Ger 
trude, “ and whether Mr. Graham is soon to return? ” 

“ Nothing,” said Miss Arnold. “ I have seen only the notice 
in the papers. When did you hear from them yourself? ” 

Gertrude mentioned the date of her letter from Mrs. Ellis, the 
account she had given of a gay party from the north, and sug- 
gested the probability that the present Mrs. Graham was the 
widow she had described. 

“The same, undoubtedly,” said Mr. Arnold. 

Their knowledge of facts was so slight, however, that littie 
remained to be said concerning the marriage, and other topics of 
conversation were introduced. But Gertrude found it impos- 
sible to give her thoughts to any other subject; the matter 
was one of such vital importance to Emily, that her mind con- 
stantly recurred to it, and she* found it difficult to keep pace with 
Anne Arnold’s rapidly-flowing words and ideas. The necessity 
which at last arose of replying to a question which she had not 
at all understood was fortunately obviated by the sudden entrance 
of Dr. and Mrs. Jeremy. The former held in his hand a sealed 
letter, directed to Gertrude, in the hand-writing of Mr. Graham ; 
and, as he handed it to her, he rubbed his hands, and, looking at 
Anne Arnold, exclaimed, “ Now. Miss Anne, we shall hear all 
ftbout these famous nuptials ! ” 

Tending her visitors thus eager to learn the contents of kei 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


229 


letter. Gertrude dispensed with ceremony, broke the seal, and 
hastily* perused its contents. 

The envelope contained two or three pages closely written by- 
Mrs. Ellis, and also a somewhat lengthy note from Mr. Graham. 
Surprised as Gertrude was at any communication from one who 
had parted from her in anger, her strongest desire was to hear 
particularly from Emily, and she tberef re gave the preference 
to the housekeeper’s document, that being most likely to contain 
the desired information. It ran as follows : 

* New York , March 31 , 1852 . 

“ Dear Gertrude : As there were plenty of Boston folks at 
the wedding, I daresay you have heard before this of Mr. Gra- 
ham’s marriage. He married the widder Holbrook, the same I 
wrote you about. She was determined to have him, and she ’s 
got him. I don’t hesitate to say he ’s got the worst of the bar- 
gain. He likes a quiet life, and he ’s lost his chance of that, — 
poor man ! — for she ’s the greatest hand for company that ever I 
saw. She followed Mr. Graham up pretty well at Havana, but 
I guess he thought better of it, and did n’t really mean to have 
her. When we got to New Orleans, however, she was there ; 
and the long and short of it is, she carried her point, and married 
him. Emily behaved beautifully ; she never said a word against 
it, and always treated the widder as pleasantly as could be ; but, 
dear me ! how will our Emily get along with so many young folks 
as there are about all the time now, and so much noise and con- 
fusion ? For my part, I an’t used to it, and don’t pretend that 
I think it ’s agreeable. The new lady is civil enough to me, now 
she ’s married. I daresay she thinks it stands her in hand, as 
long as she ’s one of the family, and I ’ve been in it so long. But 
I suppose you ’ve been wondering what had become of us, Ger- 
trude, and will be surprised to find we ’ve got so far as New 
York, on our way home, — my way home, I should say, for I’m 
the only one that talks of coming at present. The truth is, I 
kept meaning to write while we were in New Orleans, but there 
was so much going on I did n’t get a chance ; and, after that 
lorrid steamboat from Charleston here, I was n’t goo l for any« 
20 


280 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


thing for a week. But Emily was so anxious to have jou wriite** 
to that I could n’t put it off any longer than until to-day.# Poo? 
Emily is n’t very well ; I don’t mean that she ’s downright sick, 
— it ’s low spirits and nervousness, I suppose, more than any- 
thing. She gets tired and worried very quick, and is easily 
startled and disturbed, which did n’t use to be the case. I think 
likely ii ’s the new wife, and all the nieces, and other disagreeable 
things. She never complains, and nobody would know but what 
she was pleased to have her father married again ; ' ut she has n’t 
seemed quite happy all winter and now it troubles me to see how 
sad she looks sometimes. She talks a sight about you, and felt 
dreadfully not to get any more letters. To come to the principal 
thing, however, they are all going to Europe, — Emily and all. 
I take it it ’s the new wife’s idea ; but, whoever proposed the 
thing, it ’s all settled now. Mr. Graham wanted me to go, but I 
would not hear of such a thing ; I would as soon be hung as 
venture on the sea again, and I told him so, up and down. So 
now he has written for you to go with Emily ; and, if you are not 
afraid of sea-sickness, I hope you won’t refuse, for it would be 
dreadful for her to have a stranger, and you know she always 
needs somebody, on account of her blindness. I do not think she 
has the least wish to go ; but she would not ask to be left behind , 
for fear her father should think she did not like the new wife 

“ As soon as they sail, — which will be the last of April, — I 

shall come back to the house in D , and see to things there 

while they are away. I am going to write a postscript to you 

from Emily, and I believe I will add nothing more myself, except 
that we shall be very impatient to hear your answer ; and I must 
gav once more that I hope you will not refuse to go with Emily. 

“ Yours, very truly, 

“ Sarah H. Ellis.” 

The postscript contained the following : 

“I need not tell my darling Gertrude how much I have missed 
her, and longed to have her with me again ; how T have thought 
of her by night and day, and prayed God to strengthen and 

(it her for her many trials and labors. The letter written soon 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


233 


after Mi OoAper’s death is the last that has reached me, and 
I do not know whether Mrs. Sullivan is still living. Write 
to me at once, my dear child, if you cannot come to us. Father 
will tell you of our plans, and ask you to accompany us to Europe ; 
my heart will be light if I can take my dear Gerty with me, but 
not if she leave any other duty behind. I trust to you, my love, 
to decide aright. You have heard of father’s marriage. It is a 
great change for us all, but will, I trust, result in happiness. 
Mrs. Graham has two nieces who are with us at the hotel. They 
are to be of our party to go abroad, and are, I understand, very 
beautiful girls, especially Belle Clinton, whom you have seen in 
Boston some years ago. Mrs. Ellis is very tired of writing, and 
I must close with assuring my dearest Gertrude of the devoted 
affection of Emily Graham.” 

It was with great curiosity that Gertrude unfolded Mr. Gra- 
ham’s epistle ; she thought it would be awkward for him to 
address her, and wondered much whether he would maintain his 
severe and authoritative tone, or condescend to explain and 
apologize. Had she known him better, she would have been 
assured that nothing would ever induce him to do the latter, for 
be was one of those persons who never believe themselves in the 
wrong. The letter ran thus : 

“Miss Gertrude Flint: I am married, and intend to go 
abroad on the 28th of April : my daughter will accompany 
us, and, as Mrs. Ellis dreads the sea, I am induced to propose 
that you join us in New York, and attend the party, as a com- 
panion to Emily. I have not forgotten the ingratitude with which 
you once slighted a similar offer on my part, and nothing would 
compel me to give you another opportunity to manifest such a 
spirit, but a desire to promote the happiness of Emily, and a 
sincere wish to be of service to a young person who has been in 
my family so long that I feel a friendly interest in providing for 
her. I thus put it in your power, by complying with our wishes, 
to do away from my mind the recollection of your past behavior ; 
and, if you choose to return to us, I shall enable vou to maintain 


222 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


toe place and appearance of a lady. As we sail the last of the v 
month, it is important you should be here in the course of a fort- 
night; and. if you will write and name the day, I will myself meet 
you at the boat. Mrs. Ellis being anxious to return to Boston, 

L hope you will come as soon as possible. As you will be obliged 
to incur expenses, I enclose a sum of money sufficient to cover 
them. If you have contracted debts, let me know to what amount, 
and I will see that all is made right before you leave. Trusting 
to your being now come to a sense of your duty, I am ready to 
subscribe myself your friend, J. II. Graham.” 

Gertrude was sitting near a lamp whose light fell directly 
apon her face, which, as she glanced over Mr. Graham’s note, 
flushed crimson with wounded pride. Dr. Jeremy, who was 
watching her countenance, observed that she changed color ; and 
during the few minutes that Mr. and Miss Arnold staid to hear 
the news he gave an occasional glance of defiance at the letter, 
and as soon as they were gone begged to made acquainted 
with its contents, assuring Gertrude that if she did not let him 
know what Graham said, he should believe it a thousand times 
more insulting than it really was. 

“ He writes,” said Gertrude, “to invite me to accompany them 
to Europe.” 

“Indeed!” said Dr. Jeremy, with a low whistle, “and he 
thinks you ’ll be silly enough to pack up and start off at a 
minute’s notice ! ” 

“ Why, Gerty,” said Mrs. Jeremy, “you ’ll like to go, shan’t 
you, dear? It will be delightful.” 

“ Delightful 'nonsense, Mrs. Jerry!” exclaimed the doctor. 

“ What is there delightful, T want to know, in travelling about 
with an arrogant old tyrant, his blind daughter, upstart, dashy 
wife, and her two fine-lady nieces ? A pretty position Gertrude 
would be in, a slave to the whims of all that company ! ” 

“ Why, Dr. Jerry,” interrupted his wife, “you forget Emily.” 

“ Emily, — to be sure, she ’s an angel, and never would impose 
upon anybody, least of all her own pet ; but she ’ll have to play 
second fiddle herself, and I’m mistaken if she does n’t find it 


THE LAMPLIGHTEit 


233 


pretty hard, to defend her rights and maintain a comfortable posi- 
tion in her father’s enlarged family circle.’’ 

“So much the more need, then,” said Gertrude, “that some 
one should be enlisted in her interests, to ward off the approach 
of every annoyance.” 

“ Do you mean, then, to put yourself in the breach?” asked 
the doctor. 

“I mean to accept Mr. Graham’s invitation,” replied Ger- 
trude, “and join Emily at once ; but I trust the harmony that 
seems to subsist between her and her new connections will con- 
tinue undisturbed, so that I shall have no occasion to take up 
arms on her account, and on my own I do not entertain a single 
fear.” 

“ Then you really think you shall go,” said Mrs. Jeremy. 

“ I do,” said Gertrude ; “ nothing but my duty to Mrs. Sulli- 
van and her father led me to think of leaving Emily. That duty 
is at an end, and now that I can be of use to her, and she wishes 
me back, I cannot hesitate a moment. I see very plainly, from 
Mrs. Ellis’s letter, that Emily is not happy, and nothing which I 
can do to make her so must be neglected. Only think, Mrs. 
Jeremy, what a friend she has been to me ! ” 

“ I know it,” said Mrs. Jeremy, “ and I dare say you will en- 
joy the journey, in spite of all the scare-crows the doctor sets up to 
frighten you ; but still, I declare, it does seem a sacrifice for you 
to leave your beautiful room, and all your comforts, for such an 
uncertain sort of life as one has travelling with a large party.” 

“ Sacrifice ! ” interrupted the doctor, “it ’s the greatest sacrifice 
that ever I heard of ! It is not merely giving up three hundred 
and fifty dollars a year of her own earning, and as pleasant a 
home as there is in Boston ; it is relinquishing all the independ- 
ence that she has been striving after, and which she was so 
anxious to maintain that she would not accept of anybody’s hospi- 
ality for more than a week or two.” 

“ No, doctor,” said Gertrude, warmly, “ nothing that I do for 
Emily's sake can be called a sacrifice ; it is my greatest pleasure .’ 1 

“ Gerty always finds her pleasure in doing what is right / 1 
remarked Mrs. Jeremy. 


231 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


** 0, no,'* said Gertrude, * ‘ my wishes would often lead mo 
astray ; but not in this ease. The thought that our dear Emily was 
dependent upon a stranger for all those little attentions that are 
only acceptable from those she loves would make me miserable , 
our happiness has for years been almost wholly in each other, 
and when one has suffered, the other has suffered also. I must 
go to her; I cannot think of doing otherwise.” 

“I wish I thought,” muttered Dr. Jeremy, “that the sacrifice 
you make would be half appreciated. But there’s Graham, I ’ll 
venture to say, thinking it will be the greatest favor in the world 
to take you back again. Perhaps he addresses you as a beggar ; 
it would n’t be the first time . he ’s done such a thing. I wonder 
what would have induced poor Philip Amory to go back.” 
Then, in a louder tone, he inquired, “ Has he made any apology 
in his letter for past unkindness ? ” 

“I do not think he considered any to be needed,” replied 
Gertrude. 

“Then he didn’t make any sort of excuse for his ungentle- 
manly behavior ! I might have known he would n’t. I declare, 
it ’s a shame you should be exposed to any more such treatment ; 
but I always did hear that women were self-forgetful in their 
friendship, and I believe it. Gertrude makes an excellent friend. 
Mrs. Jerry, we must cultivate her regard, and some time or other 
perhaps make a loud call upon her services.” 

“ And if ever you do, sir, I shall be ready to respond to it, 
if there is a person in the world who owes a debt to society, it is 
myself. I hear the world called cold, selfish, and unfeeling ; but 
it has not been so to me. I should be ungrateful if I did not 
cherish a spirit of universal love ; how much more so, if I did 
not feel bound heart and hand to those dear friends who have 
bestowed upon me such affection as no orphan ever found before ! ” 
“ Gertrude,” said Mrs. Jeremy, “ I believe that you were right 
in leaving Emily when you did, and that you are right in return- 
ing to her now ; and, if your being such a good girl as you are 
is at all due to her, she certainly has a great claim upon you.” 

“ She has a claim indeed, Mrs. Jeremy ! It was Emily who 
first taught me the difference between right and wrong — ” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


235 


“And she is going to reap the benefit of that knowledge in 
you,” said the doctor, in continuation of her remark. “That’s 
fair ! But, if you are resolved to take this European tour, you 
will be busy enough with your preparations. Do you think Mr. 
W. will be willing to give you up ? ” 

“ I hope so,” said Gertrude ; “I am sorry to be obliged to ask 
it of him, for he has been very indulgent to me, and I have 
been absent from school two weeks out of the winter already ; 
but, as there want only a few months to the summer vacation, he 
will, perhaps, be able to supply my place. I shall speak to him 
about it to-morrow.” 

Mrs. Jeremy now interested herself in the details of Gertrude’s 
arrangements, offered an attic-room for the storage of her furni- 
ture, gave up to her a dress*maker whom she had engaged for 
herself, and, before she left, a plan was laid out, by following 
which Gertrude would be enabled to start for New York in less 
than a week. 

Mr. W., on being applied to, relinquished Gertrude, though 
deeply regretting, as he told her, to lose so valuable an assistant ; 
and, after ,a few days busily occupied in preparation, she bade 
farewell to the tearful Fanny Bruce, the bustling doctor and his 
kind-hearted wife,, all of whom accompanied her to the railroad- 
station. .She promised to write to the Jeremys, and they, on 
their part, agreed to forward to her any letters that might arrive 
from Willie. 

In less than a fortnight from the time of her departure, Mrs. Ellis 
returned to Boston, and brought news of the safe conclusion of 
Gertrude’s journey. A letter, received a week after, by Mrs. 
Jeremy, announced that they should sail in a few days. She was, 
therefore, surprised, when a second epistle was put into her hands, 
dated the day succeeding that on which she supposed Mr. Graham’s 
party to have left the country. It was as follows : 

“ New York , April 29 th* 

“ My dear Mrs. Jeremy : As yesterday was the day on which 
we expected to sail for Europe, you will be somewhat astonished 
to hear that we are yet in New York, and still more so to learn 


286 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


that the foreign tour is now indefinitely postponed. Only two 
days since, Mr. Graham was seized with his old complaint, the 
gout, and the attack proved so violent as seriously to threaten his 
life. Although to-day somewhat relieved, and considered by his 
physician out of immediate danger, he remains a great sufferer, 
and a sea- voyage is pronounced impracticable for months to come. 
His great anxiety is to be at home ; and, as soon as it is possible 
for him to bear the journey, we shall all hasten to the house in 
D . I enclose a note for Mrs. Ellis. It contains various direc- 

tions which Emily is desirous she should receive ; and, as we did 
not know how to address her, I have sent it to you trusting to 
your kindness to see it forwarded. Mrs. Graham and her nieces, 
who had been anticipating much pleasure from going abroad, are, 
of course, greatly disappointed at the entire change in their plans 
for the summer. It is particularly trying to Miss Clinton, as her 
father has been absent more than a year, and she was hoping to 
meet him in Paris. 

“ It is impossible that either Emily or myself should personally 
regret a journey of which we felt only dread, and, were it not 
for Mr. Graham’s illness being the cause of its postponement, we 
should both, I think, find it hard not to realise a degree of selfLvh 
satisfaction in the prospect of returning to the dear old place ; n 

D , where we hope to be established in the course of \.<xe 

next month. I say we, for neither Mr. Graham nor Emily wS 
hear of mj leaving them again. 

“With the kindest regards to yourself, and my friend t&j 
doctor, I am yours, very sincerely, 

♦ “ Gertrude Fldjv " 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


I see her; 

Her hair in ringlets fluttering free, 

And her lips that move with melody. 

Not she. — There’s a beauty that lovelier glows, 

Though her coral lip with melody flows. 

I see her ; ’t is she of the ivory brow 
And heaven-tinged orbs : I know her now. 

Not she. — There’s another more lovely still, 

With a chastened mind, and a tempered will. 

Caroline Gilman. 

Mr. Graham’s country-house boasted a fine, old-fashioned entry, 
with a door at either end, both of which usually stood open dur- 
ing the warm weather, admitting a cool current of air, and ren- 
dering the neighborhood of the front entrance a favorite resort 
for the family, especially during the early hours of the day, when 
the warm sun had no access to the spot; and the shady yard, 
which sloped gradually down to the road, was refreshing and 
grateful to the sight. Here, on a pleasant June morning, Isabel 
Clinton, and her cousin Kitty Ray. had made themselves comfort- 
able, each according to her own idea of what constituted comfort. 

Isabel had drawn a large arm-chair close to the door-sill, en- 
sconced herself in it, and, although she held in her hand a piece 
of worsted-work, was gazing idly down the road. She was a 
beautiful girl, tall and finely formed, with a delicate complexion, 
clear blue eyes, and rich, light, flowing curls. The same lovely 
child, whom Gertrude had gazed upon with rapture, as, leaning 
against the window of her father’s house, she watched old True 
while he lit his lamp, had ripened into an equally lovely woman 
Her uncommon beauty aided and enhanced by all the advantages 


236 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


th dress which skill could suggest or money provide, she was 
universally admired, flattered, and caressed. 

At an early age deprived of her mother, and left for some 
years almost wholly to the care of servants, she soon learned to 
appreciate at more than their true value the outward attractions 
she possessed; and her aunt, under whose tutelage she had been 
since she left school, was little calculated to counteract in her this 
undue self-admiration. An appearance of conscious superiority 
which distinguished her, and the independent air with which she 
tapped against the door-step with her little foot, might safely be 
attributed, then, to her conviction that Belle Clinton, the beauty 
and the heiress, was looking vastly well, as she sat there, attired 
in a blue cashmere morning-dress, richly embroidered, and flowing 
open in front, for the purpose of displaying an equally rich 
flounced cambric petticoat. It can scarcely be wondered at that 
she was herself pleased and satisfied with an outward appearance 
that could not fail to please and satisfy the most severe critic. 

On a low step at her feet sat Kitty Bay, a complete contrast to 
her cousin in looks, manner, and many points of character. Kitty 
was one of those whom the world usually calls a sweet little creat- 
ure, lively, playful, and affectionate. She was so small that her 
childish manners became her ; so full of spirits that her occasional 
rudeness claimed pardon on that score ; too thoughtless to be 
always amiable or always wise ; and for all other faults her warm- 
heartedness and generous enthusiasm must plead an excuse to one 
who wished, or even endeavored, to love her as she wished and 
expected to be loved by everybody. She was a prettty girl, always 
bright and animated, mirthful and happy ; fond of her cousin Belle, 
and sometimes influenced by her, though often, on the other hand, 
enlisting with all her force on the opposite side of some contested 
question. Unlike Belle, she was seldom well dressed, for, though 
possessed of ample means, she was very careless. On the present 
occasion, her dark silk wrapper was half concealed by a crimson 
flannel sack, which she held tightly around her, declaring it was 
a dreadful chilly morning, and she was half-frozen to death — she 
certainly would go and warm herself at the kitchen fire, if she 
were not afraid of encountering that ske-dragon Mrs. Ellis; she 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


289 


was sure she did not see, if she must sit in the door-way, why 
Belle could n’t come to the side-door, where the sun shone beauti- 
fully. “ 0, I forgot, though,” added she ; “ complexion ! ” 

“ Complexion ! ” said Belle ; u I ’m no more afraid of hurting 
my complexion than you are ; I ’m sure I never freckle, or tan 
either.” 

“ I know that; but you burn all up, and look like a fright.” 

“ Well, if I did n't, I should n’t go there to sit ; I like to be 
at the front of the house, where I can see the passing. I wonder 
who those people are, coming up the road ; I ’ve been watching 
them for some time.” 

Kitty, stood up, and looked in the direction to which Belle 
pointed. After observing the couple who were approaching for a 
minute or two, she exclaimed, “ Why, that’s Gertrude Flint! I 
wonder where she ’s been ! and who can that be with her ? I 
did n’t know there was a beau to be had about here.” 

“ Beau ! ” said Belle, sneeringly. 

“ And why not a beau, Cousin Belle ! I ’m sure he looks like 
one.” 

“ I would n ? t give much for any of her beaux ! ” said Belle. 

“ Would n’t you ? ” said Kitty. “ You ’d better wait until you 
see who they are ; you near-sighted people should n J t decide in 
such a hurry. I can tell you that he is a gentleman you would n’t 
object to walking with yourself ; it ’s Mr. Bruce, the one we met 
in New Orleans.” 

“ I don’t believe it ! ” exclaimed Belle, starting up. 

4 ‘You will soon have a chance to see for yourself; for he is 
coming home with her.” 

“ He is? — What can he be walking with her for ? ” 

“ To show his taste, perhaps. I am sure he could not find more 
agreeable company.” 

“ You and I don’t agree about that,” replied Belle. “ I don’t 
see anything very agreeable about her.” 

“Because you are determined not to, Belle. EverybodyeJ.se 
tliinks her charming, and Mr. Bruce is opening the gate for her 
as politely as if she were a queen ; I like him for that.” 

“ Do see,” said Belle ; “she ’s got on that white cape-bonnei 


240 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


of hers ! and that checked gingham dress ! I wonder what Mr. 
Bruce thinks of her, and he such a critic in regard to ladies 1 
dress.” 

Gertrude and her companion now drew near the house ; the 
former looked up, saw the young ladies in the door- way, and 
smiled pleasantly at Kitty, who was making strange grimaces, 
and giving significant glances, over Belle’s shoulder ; but Mr 
Bruce, who seemed much engaged by the society he was already 
enjoying, did not observe either of them ; and they distinctly 
heard him say, as he handed Gertrude a small parcel he had been 
carrying for her, “ I believe I won’t come in ; it ’s such a bore to 
have to talk to strangers. Do you work in the garden, morn> 
ings, this summer ? ” 

“No,” replied Gertrude, “there is nothing left of my garden 
but the memory of it.” 

“ Why, Miss Gertrude ! ” said the young man, “ I hope these 
new comers have n’t interfered with — ” Here observing the direc- 
tion of Gertrude’s eyes, he raised his own, saw Belle and Kitty 
standing opposite to him, and, compelled now to recognize and 
speak with them, went forward to shake hands, trusting to his 
remarks about strangers in general, and these new comers in pai- 
ticular, not having been overheard. 

Although overheard, the young ladies chose to take no notice 
of that which they supposed intended for unknown individuals. 

They were mistaken, however ; Mr. Bruce knew perfectly well, 
that the nieces of the present Mrs. Graham wore the same girls 
whom he had met at the^outh, and was, nevertheless, indifferent 
about renewing his acquaintance. His vanity, however, was not 
proof against the evident pleasure they both manifested at seeing 
him again, and he was in a few minutes engaged in an animated 
conversation with them, while Gertrude quietly entered the house, 
and went up stairs unnoticed. She sought Emily’s room, to which 
she had a/ ways free access, and was giving an account of her 
morning’s expedition to the village, and the successful manner in 
which she had accomplished various commissions and errands, 
when Mrs. Ellis put her head in at the door, and said, with a most 
distressed voice and countenance, “ Has n’t Gertrude? — 0, there 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


241 


you are ! Do tell me what Mrs. Wilkins said about the straw- 
berries.’ ’ 

“ I engaged three quarts ; has n’t she sent them ? ” 

“ No, but I ’m thankful to hear they ’re coming ; I have been 
so plagued about the dinner.” 

She now came in, shut the door, and, seating herself, exclaimed, 
with something like a groan, “ I declare, Emily, such an ironing 
as our girls have got to do to-day ! you never saw anything like 
it ! There ’s no end to the fine clothes Mrs. Graham and those 
nieces of hers put into our wash. I declare, it ’s a shame ! Kich 
as they are, they might put out their washing. I ’ve been help- 
ing, myself , as much as I could ; but, as Mrs. Prime says, one 
can’t do everything at once ; and I ’ve had to see the butcher, 
make puddings and blanc-mange, and been worried to death, all 
the time because I had forgotten to engage those strawberries. 
So Mrs. Wilkins had n’t sent her fruit to market when you got 
there ? ” 

“ No, but she was in a great hurry, getting it ready ; it would 
have been gone in a very short time.” 

“Well, that was lucky. I don’t know what I should have 
done without the berries, for I ’ve no time to hunt up anything 
else for dessert. I ’ve got just as much as I can do till dinner- 
time. Mrs. Graham never kept house before, and don’t know how 
to make allowance for anything. She comes home ^om Boston, 
expects to find everything in apple-pie order, and never asks or 
cares who does the work.” 

Mrs. Prime’s voice was now heard, calling at the back-stair- 
case, — “Mrs. Ellis, Miss Wilkins’ boy has fetched your straw- 
berries, and the hulls an’t off o’ one on ’em ; he said they had n’t 
no time.” 

“ That’s too bad ! ” exclaimed the tired, worried housekeeper. 

“ Who ’s going to take the hulls off, I should like to know ? Katy 
is busy enough, and I ’m sure I can’t do it.” 

“I will, Mrs. Ellis, — let me do it,” said Gertrude, following 
Mrs. Ellis, who was now half-way down stairs. 

“ No, no ! don’t you touch to, Miss Gertrude,” said Mrs. Prime j 
“ they ’ll only stain your fingers all up.” 

21 


242 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


“ No matter if they do ; my hands are not made of white kid 
They ’ll bear washing.” 

Mrs. Ellis was only too thankful for Gertrude’s help, and, seat- 
ing herself in the dining-room, she commenced the task. In the 
mean while, Belle and Kitty were doing their best to entertain 
Mr. Bruce, who, sitting on the door-steps, and leaning back against 
a pillar of the piazza, from time to time cast his eyes down the 
entry, and up the staircase, in hopes of Gertrude’s re-appearance ; 
and, despairing of it at last, he was on the point of taking his 
departure, when his sister Fanny came in at the gate, and, running 
up the yard, was rushing past the assembled trio and into the 
house. 

Her brother, however, stretched out his arm, caught her, and 
before he let her go, whispered something in her ear. 

" Who is that wild Indian ? ” asked Kitty Ray, as Fanny ran 
across the entry and disappeared. 

“ A sister of mine,” answered Ben, in a nonchalant manner. 

“ Why ! is she ? ” inquired Kitty, with interest ; “ I have seen 
her here several times, and never took any notice of her. x 
did n’t know she was your sister. What a pretty girl she is ! ” 

“ Do you think so ? ” said Ben ; “ sorry I can’t agree with you. 

I think she ’s a fright.*” 

Fanny now re-appeared, and, stopping a moment on her way up 
stairs, called out, without any ceremony, “ She says she can’t come, 
she ’s busy.” 

“Who?” asked Kitty, in her turn catching Fanny and detain 
ing her. 

“Miss Flint.” 

Mr. Bruce colored slightly, and Belle Clinton observed it. 

“What is she doing? ” inquired Kitty. 

“ Hulling strawberries.” 

“ Where are you going, Fanny ? ” asked her brother. 

“Up stairs.” 

“ Do they let you go all over the house ? ” 

“ Miss Flint said I might go up and bring down the birds.” 

“ What birds? ” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


243 


“ Her birds ; I am going to hang them in the sun, and then 
they ’ll sing beautifully.” 

She ran off, and soon came back again with a cage in her hand, 
containing the little monias, sent by Willie from Calcutta. 

“ There, Kitty,” cried Belle ; “I think those are the birds that 
wake us up so early every morning with their noise.” 

“Very likely,” said Kitty; “bring them here, will you, 
Fanny ? I want to see them. — Goodness ! ” continued she, “ what 
little creatures they are ! — do look at them, Mr. Bruce, — they 
are sweet pretty.” 

“ Put them down on the door-step, Fanny,” said Ben, “ so that 
we can see them better.” 

“ I ’m afraid you ’ll frighten them,” replied Fanny ; u Miss Ger- 
trude does n’t like to have them frightened.” 

“ No, we won’t,” said Ben ; “we are disposed to be very 
friendly to Miss Gertrude’s birds. Where did she get them, — do 
you know, Fanny? ” 

“ Why, they are India birds ; Mr. Sullivan sent them to her.” 

“Who is he? ” 

“ 0, he is a very particular friend ; she has letters from him 
every little while.” 

“What Mr. Sullivan?” asked Belle. “Do you know his 
Christian name ? ” 

“ I suppose it ’s William,” said Fanny. “ Miss Emily always 
calls the birds little Willies.” 

‘‘ Belle ! ” exclaimed Kitty, “ that ’s your William Sullivan ! ” 

“ What a favored man he seems to be ! ” said Mr. Bruce, in a 
tone of sarcasm; “the property of one beautiful lady, and the 
particular friend of another.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean, Kitty,” said Belle, tartly. 

“ Mr. Sullivan is a junior partner of my father’s, but I have not 
seen him for years.” 

“Except in your dreams, Belle,” suggested Kitty. “You 
forget.” 

Belle now looked angry. 

“Do you dream about Mr. Sullivan?” asked Fanny* fixing 


244 


TUE LAMPLIGHTER. 


her eyes on Belle as she spoke. “I mean to go and ask Miss 
Gertrude if she does.” 

“ Do,” said Kitty ; “ I ’ll go with you.” 

They ran across the entry, opened the door into the dining-room, 
and both put the question to her at the same moment. 

Taken thus by surprise, Gertrude neither blushed nor looked 
confused, but answered, quietly, “Yes, sometimes; but what do 
you, either of you, know of Mr. Sullivan ; — why do you ask ! ” 

“ 0, nothing,” answered Kitty; “ only some others do , and we 
are inquiring round to see how many there are ; ” and she shut 
the door and ran back in triumph, to tell Belle she might as well 
be frank, like Gertrude, and plead guilty to the weakness ; it 
looked so much better than blushing and denying it. 

But it would not do to joke with Belle any longer ; she was 
seriously offended, and took no pains to conceal the fact. Mr. 
Bruce felt awkward and annoyed, and soon went away, leaving the 
two cousins to settle their difficulty as they best could. As soon 
as he had gone, Belle folded up her work, and walked up stairs to 
her room with great dignity, while Kitty staid behind to laugh 
over the matter, and improve her opportunity to make friends with 
Fanny Bruce ; for Kitty was not a little interested in the brother, 
and labored under the common, but often mistaken idea, that in 
cultivating the acquaintance of the sister she should advance her 
cause. Perhaps she was somewhat induced to this step by her 
having observed that Gertrude appeared to be an equal favorite 
with both. 

She therefore called Fanny to sit beside her, put her arm round 
her waist, and commenced talking about Gertrude, and the origin 
and extent of the intimacy which seemed to exist between her and 
the Bruce family. 

Fanny, who was always communicative, willingly informed her 
of the circumstances which had attached her so strongly to a friend 
who was some years her senior. 

“And your brother,” said Kitty; “he has known her soma 
time, has n’t he? ” 

“ Yes, indeed, I suppose so,” answered Fanny, carelessly. 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


245 


“ Does lie like her ? ” 

“ I don’t know ; I should think he would ; I don't see how he 
can help it.” 

“ What did he whisper to you, when you came up the steps ? ” 

Fanny could not remember at once ; but, on being reminded of 
the answer she had given, she replied, promptly, 

“0, he bade me ask Miss Gertrude if she was n’t coming back 
to see him again, and tell her he was tired to death waiting for 
her.” 

Kitty pouted and looked vexed. “ I want to know,” said she, 
“if Miss Flint has been in the habit of receiving company here, 
od being treated like an equal? ” 

“Of course she has,” answered Fanny, with spirit; “why 
^iiould n’t she ? She ’s the most perfect lady I ever saw, and 
mother says she has beautiful manners, and I must take pattern by 
her.” 

“0, Miss Gertrude,” called she, as Gertrude, who had been to 
place the strawberries in the refrigerator, crossed the back part of 
the long entry, “ are you ready now ? ” 

“ Yes, Fanny, I shall be in a moment,” answered Gertrude. 

“ Eeady for what? ” inquired Kitty. 

“ To read,” said Fanny. “ She is going to read the rest o' 
Hamlet to Miss Emily ; she read the first three acts yesterday, 
and Miss Emily let me sit in her room and hear it. I can’t 
understand it, when I read it mvself ; but when I listen to Miss 
Gertrude, it seems quite plain. She ’s a splendid reader, and I 
came in to-day on purpose to hear the play finished.” 

Kitty’s last companion having deserted her, she stretched her- 
self on the entry sofa and fell asleep. She was wakened by her 
aunt, who returned from the city a short time before dinner, and, 
finding her asleep in her morning wrapper, shook her by the arm, 
and said, in a voice which the best intentions could never render 
otherwise than loud and coarse, “ Kitty Ray, wake up and go dress 
foi dinner ! I saw Belle at the chamber-window, looking like a 
beauty. I wish you ’d take half the pains she does to improve 
your appearance/’ 

21 * 


246 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


Kitty yawned, and, after delaying as long as she chose, finally 
followed Mrs. Graham’s directions. It was Kitty’s policy, after 
giving offence to her cousin Belle, to appear utterly unconscious of 
the existence of any unkind feelings ; and, though Belle often 
manifested some degree of sulkiness, she was too dependent upon 
Kitty’s society to retain ’that disposition long. They were soon, 
therefore, chatting together as usual. 

“ Belle,” said Kitty, as she stood arranging her hair at the glass, 
4 do you remember a girl we used to meet every morning, on our 
way to school, walking with a paralytic old man ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Do you know I think it was Gertrude Flint ? She has altered 
very much, to be sure ; but the features are still the same, and 
there certainly never was but one such pair of eyes.” 

“ I have no doubt she is the same person,” said Belle, com' 
posedly, 

u Did you think of it before ? ” 

“ Yes, as soon as Fanny spoke of her knowing Willie Sullivan.” 

“ Why, Belle, why did n’t you speak of it ? ” 

“ Lor’, Kitty, I don’t feel so much interest in her as you and 
some others do.” 

“ What others ? ” 

It was now Belle’s turn to be provoking. 

“ Why, Mr. Bruce ; don’t you see he is half in love with her ? ” 

“No, I don’t see any such thing; he has known her for a 
long time (Fanny says so), and, of course, he feels a regard 
and respect for a girl that the Grahams make so much account 
of. But I don't believe he ’d think of such a thing as being 
in love with a poor girl like her, with no family connections to 
boast of.” 

“ Perhaps he did n’t think of being.” 

“ Well, he would n't be. She is n’t the sort of a person that 
would suit him. He has been in society a great deal, not only at 
home, but in Paris ; and he would want a wife that was very lively 
and fond of company, and knew how to make a show with money.” 

“ A girl, foi instance, like Kitty Bay.” 

“ How ridiculous, Belle ! just as if people could n’t talk with- 


THE LAMPLIGHTER* 


247 


out thinking of themselves all the time ! What do I care about 
Ben Bruce? ” 

“I don’t know that you care anything about him; but I 
would n’t pull all the hair out of my head about it, as you seem 
to be doing, There’s the dinner-bell, and you’ll be late ; as 
usual.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


She hath a natural, wise sincerity, 

A simple truthfulness, and these have lent her 
A dignity as moveless as the centre. 

Lowell. 

Twilight of this same day found Gertrude and Emily seated at 
a window which commanded a delightful western view. Gertrude 
had been describing to her blind friend’ the gorgeous picture pre- 
sented to her vision by the masses of rich and brilliantly-painted 
cloud ; and Emily, as she listened to tha glowing description of 
nature, as she unfolded herself at an hour which they both pre- 
ferred to all others, experienced a participation in Gertrude’s en- 
joyment. The glory had now faded away, save a long strip of 
gold which skirted the horizon ; and the stars, as they came out, 
one by one, seemed to look in at the chamber-window with a smile 
of recognition. 

In the parlor below there was company from the city, and the 
sound of mirth and laughter came up on the evening breeze ; so 
mellowed, however, by distance, that it contrasted with the peace 
of the quiet room, without disturbing it. 

“You bad better go down, Gertrude,” said Emily; ‘‘they 
appear to be enjoying themselves, and I love to hear your laugh 
mingling with the rest.” 

“ 0, no, dear Emily I ” said Gertrude ; “ I prefer to stay with 
you ; they are nearly all strangers to me.” 

" As you please, my dear ; but don’t let me keep you from 
the young people.” 

“ You can never keep me with you, dear Emily, longer than I 
wish to stay ; there is no society I love so well.” And so she 
staid, and they resumed their pleasant conversation,, which. 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


249 


though harmonious and calm, was not without its playfulness and 
occasional gleams of wit. 

They were interrupted by Katy, whom Mrs. Graham sent to 
announce a new visitor, — Mrs. Bruce, — who had inquired for 
Emily. 

“I suppose I must go down,” said Emily ; “ you ’ll come too, 
Gertrude?” 

“ No, I believe not, unless she asked for me. Did she, Katy? ” 

4 ‘ Mrs. Graham was only afther mintioning Miss Emily,” said 
Katy. 

“ Then I will stay here,” said Gertrude ; and Emily, finding it 
to be her wish, went without her. 

There was soon another loud ring at the door-bell. It seemed 
to be a reception evening, and this time Gertrude’s presence was 
particularly requested, to see Dr. and Mrs. Jeremy. 

When she entered the parlor, she found a great number ol 
guests assembled, and every seat in the room occupied. As she 
came in alone, and unexpected by the greater part of the com- 
pany, all eyes were turned upon her. Contrary to the expecta- 
tion of Belle and Kitty, who were watching her with curiosity, 
she manifested neither embarrassment nor awkwardness; but, 
glancing leisurely at the various groups, until she recognized Mrs. 
Jeremy, crossed the large saloon with characteristic grace, and as 
much ease and self-possession as if she were the only person pres« 
ent. After greeting that lady with her usual warmth and cordial- 
ity, she turned to speak to the doctor ; but he was sitting nexc 
Fanny Bruce in the window-seat, and was half concealed by the 
curtain. Before he could rise and come forward, Mrs. Bruce 
nodded pleasantly from the opposite corner, and Gertrude went 
to shake hands with her ; Mr. Bruce, who formed one in a gay 
circle of young ladies and gentlemen collected in that part of the 
room, and who had been observing Gertrude’s motions so atten- 
tively as to make no reply to a question put to him by Kitty Kay, 
now rose and offered his chair, saying, “ Miss Gertrude, do take 
this seat.” 

“ Thank you,” said Gertrude, “ but I see my friend the doctor. 


250 


t:ie lamplighter. 


on the other side of the room ; he expects me to come and speak 
to him, — so don’t let me disturb you.” 

Dr. Jeremy now came half-way across the room to meet her, 
and, taking her by both hands, led her into the recess formed by 
the window, and placed her in his own seat, next to Fanny Bruce. 
To the astonishment of all who knew him, Ben Bruce brought his 
own chair and placed it for the doctor opposite to Gertrude. So 
much respect for age had not been anticipated from the modern- 
bred man of fashion. 

“ Is that a daughter of Mr. Graham ? ” asked a young lady of 
Belle Clinton, who sat next her. 

“ No, indeed,” replied Belle ; “ she is a person to whom Miss 
Graham gave an education, and now she lives here to read to her, 
and be a sort of companion ; her name is Flint.” 

“What did you say that young lady’s name was?” asked a 
dashing lieutenant, leaning forward and addressing Isabel. 

“Miss Flint.” 

“ Flint, ah ! she ’s a genteel-looking girl. How peculiarly she 
dresses her hair ! ” 

“Very becoming, however, to that style of face,” remarked the 
young lady who had first spoken. “ Don’t you think so ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” replied the lieutenant ; “ something becomes 
her; she makes a fine appearance. Bruce,” said he, as Mr. 
Bruce returned, after his unusual effort at politeness, “ who is 
that Miss Flint ? — I have been here two or three times, and I 
never saw her before.” 

“ Very likely,” said Mr. Bruce; “ she won’t always show her- 
self. Is n’t she a fine-looking girl ? ” 

“ I have n’t made up my mind yet; she ’s got a splendid figure, 
but who is she ? ” 

“ She ’s a sort of adopted daughter of Mr. Graham’s, I believe ; 
a protegee of Miss Emily’s.” 

“ Ah ! poor thing ! An orphan ? ” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Ben, biting his lip. 

“ P tv ? ” said the young man ; “ poor thing ! but, as you say, 
Ben, she ’s good-looking, particularly when she smiles ; there is 
something very attractive about her face.” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


251 


There certainly was to Ben, for, a moment after, Kitlj Bay 
missed him from the room, and immediately espied him standing 
on the piazza, and leaning through the open window to talk with 
Gertrude, Dr. Jeremy, and Fanny. The conversation soon became 
very lively ; there seemed to be a war of wits going on ; the 
doctor, especially, laughed very loud, and Gertrude and Fanny 
often joined in the merry peal. Kitty endured it as long as she 
could, and then ran boldly across to join the party, and hea* 
what they were having so much fun about. 

But it was all an enigma to Kitty. Dr. Jeremy was talking 
with Mr. Bruce concerning something which had happened many 
years ago ; there was a great deal about a fool’s cap, with a long 
tassel, and taking afternoon naps in the grass ; the doctor was 
making queer allusions to some old pear-tree, and traps set for 
thieves, and kept reminding Gertrude of circumstances which 
attended their first acquaintance with each other and with Mr. 
Bruce. 

Kitty was beginning to feel that, as she was uninitiated in all 
they were talking about, she had placed herself in the position of 
an intruder, and was thereupon looking a little embarrassed and 
ill at ease, when Gertrude touched her arm, and, kindly making 
room for her next herself, motioned to her to sit down, saying, as 
she did so, “ Dr. Jeremy is speaking of the time when he (or he 
and J, as he chooses to have it) went fruit-stealing in Mrs. 
Bruce’s orchard, and were unexpectedly discovered by Mr. 
Bruce.” 

“ You mean, my dear,” interrupted the doctor, “ that Mr. 
Bruce was discovered by us. Why, it ’smy opinion he would have 
alept until this time if I had n’t given him such a thorough 
waking up ! ” 

“ My first acquaintance with you was certainly the greatest 
awakening of my life,” said Ben, speaking as if to the doctor, 
but looking meaningly at Gertrude ; ‘ ‘ that was not the only nap 
it cost me. How sorry I am, Miss Gertrude, that you ’ve given 
up working in the garden, as you used to ! Pray, how does it 
happen ? ” 

“Mrs. Graham has had it remodelled,” replied Gertrude, ind 


252 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


the new gardener neither needs nor desires my services. He has 
his own plans, and it is not well to interfere with the professor 
of an art ; I should be sure to do mischief.” 

“ I doubt whether his success compares with yours,” said Ben. 
“I do not see anything like the same quantity of flowers in the 
room that you used to have.” 

“ I don’t think,” said Gertrude, “ that he is as fond of cutting 
them as I was. I did not care so much for the appearance of the 
garden as for having plenty of flowers in the house ; but with him 
it is the reverse.” 

Kitty now addressed some remark to Mr. Bruce on the sub- 
ject of gardening, and Gertrude, turning to Dr. Jeremy, con- 
tinued in earnest conversation with him, until Mrs. Jeremy rose 
to go, when, approaching the window, she said, “ Dr. Jerry, have 
you given Gertrude her letter ? ” 

“ Goodness me!” exclaimed the doctor, “ I came near forgetting 
it.” Then, feeling in his pocket, he drew forth an evidently foreign 
document, the envelope literally covered with various-colored 
post-office stamps. “See here, Gerty, genuine Calcutta; no 
mistake ! ” 

Gertrude took the letter, and, as sh*e thanked the doctor, hei 
countenance expressed pleasure at receiving it ; a pleasure, how- 
ever, somewhat tempered by sadness, for she had heard from 
Willie but once since he learned the news of his mother’s death, 
and that letter had been such an outpouring of his vehement 
grief that the sight of his hand-writing almost pained her, as sho 
anticipated something like a repetition of the outburst. 

Mr. Bruce who kept his eyes upon her, and half expected to 
•see her change color, and look disconcerted, on the letter being 
handed to her in the presence of so many witnesses, was re-assured 
by the composure with which she took it, and held it openly in 
her hand while she bade the doctor and his wife good-evening. 
She followed them to the door, and was then retreating to her 
own apartment, when she was met at the foot of the stairs by 
Mr. Bruce, who had noticed the movement, and now entered 
^om the piazza in time to arrest her steps, and ask if her lettei 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


253 


was of such importance that she must deny the company the 
pleasure of her society in order to study its contents. 

• It is from a friend of whose welfare I am anxious to hear,* 
said Gertrude, gravely. “ Please excuse me to your mother, if 
she inquires for me ; and, as the rest of the guests are strangers, 
I shall not be missed by them.” 

“ 0, Miss Gertrude,” said Mr. Bruce, “ it ’s no use coming 
here to see you, you are so frequently invisible. What part of 
the day is one most likely to find you disengaged ? ” 

“ Hardly any part,” said Gertrude. “ I am always a very busy 
character; but good-night, Mr. Bruce, — don’t let me detain you 
from the other young ladies ; ” and Gertrude ran up stairs, 
leaving Mr. Bruce uncertain whether to be vexed with himself or 
her. 

Contrary to Gerty’s expectations, her letter from William Sul- 
livan proved very soothing to the grief she had felt on his 
account. His spirit had been so weighed down and crushed by 
the intelligence of the death of his grandfather, and finally of his 
second and still greater loss, that his first communication to Ger- 
trude had alarmed her, from the discouraged, disheartened tone 
in which it was written ; she had feared lest his Christian forti- 
tude would give way to the force of this double affliction. 

She was, therefore, much relieved to find that he now wrote in 
a calmer strain; that he had taken to heart his mother’s last 
entreaty and prayer for a submissive disposition on his part; 
and that, although deeply afflicted, he was schooling himself to 
patience and resignation. But he did not, in this letter, dwell 
long upon his own sufferings under bereavement. 

The three closely-written pages were almost wholly devoted to 
fervent and earnest expressions of gratitude to Gertrude for the 
active kindness and love which had cheered and comforted the 
last days of his much-regretted friends. He prayed that Heaven 
would bless her, and reward her disinterested and self-denying 
efforts, and closed with saying, “ You are all there is left to me, 
Gertrude. If I loved you before my heart is now bound to you 
by ties stronger than those of earth ; my hopes, my labors, my 
22 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


854 

praters, are all for you. God grant we may some day meet 
again ! 

For an hour after she had finished reading, Gertrude sat lost 
in meditation ; her thoughts went back to her home at Uncle 
True’s, and the days when she and Willie passed so many happy 
hours in close companionship, little dreaming of the long sepa- 
ration so soon to ensue. She rehearsed, in her mind, all the suc- 
ceeding events which had brought her into her present position, 
and was only startled at last from the revery she was indulging 
in by the voices of Mrs. Graham’s visitors, who were now taking 
leave. 

Mrs. Bruce and her son lingered a little, until the carriages 
had driven off with those of the guests who were to return to th* 
sity, and, as they were making their farewells on the door-step, 
directly beneath Gertrude’s window, she heard Mrs. Graham say, 
14 Remember, Mr. Bruce, we dine at two ; and, Miss Fanny, we 
shall hope to see you also. I presume you will join the walking 
party.” 

This, then, was an arrangement which was to bring Mr. Bruce 
there to dinner, at no very distant period; and Gertrude’s reflec- 
tions, forsaking the past, began to centre upon the present. 

Mr. Bruce’s attentions to her had that day been marked ; and 
the professions of admiration he had contrived to whisper in her 
ear had been still more so. Both these attentions and this 
admiration were unsought and un desired ; neither were they in 
any degree flattering to the high-minded girl, who was superior to 
coquetry, and whose self-respect was even wounded by the confi- 
dent and assured manner in which Mr. Bruce made his advances 
As a youth of seventeen, she had marked him as indolent and 
ill-bred. Her sense of justice, however, would have obliterated 
this recollection, had his character and manners appeared changed 
on the renewal of their acquaintance, some years after. This 
was not the case, however, for the outward polish, bestowed by 
fashion and familiarity with society, could not cloud Gertrude’s 
discernment; and she quickly perceived that his old character- 
istics still remained, heightened and rendered more glaring by an 
ill-concealed vanity. As a boy, he had stared at Gertrude from 


THIS LAMPLIGHTER. 


255 


aipcutanGC, and inquired her name out of idle curiosity; as a 
youthful coxcomb, he had resolved to flirt with her, because his 
time hung heavy on his hands, and he could think of nothing 
better to do. But, to his surprise, he found the country girl (for 
such he considered her, never having seen her elsewhere) was 
quite insensible to the flattery and notice which many a city 
belle had coveted ; appeared wholly indifferent to his admiration ; 
and that when he tried raillery he usually proved the disconcerted 
party. If he sought her, as he was frequently in the habit of 
doing, when she was at work among the flowers, he found it im- 
possible to distract her attention from her labors, or detain her 
after they were completed ; if he joined her in her walks, and, 
with his wonted self-conceit, made her aware of the honor he 
supposed himself conferring, she either maintained a dignity 
which warded off his fulsome adulation, or, if he ventured to 
make her the object of direct compliment, received it as a jest, 
and retorted with a playfulness and wit which often left the 
opaque wits of poor Ben in some doubt whether he had not been 
making himself ridiculous ; and this, not because Gertrude was 
willing to wound the feelings of one who was disposed to admire 
her, but because she perceived that he was far from being sincere, 
and she had an honorable pride which would not endure to be 
trifled with. 

It was something new to Mr. Bruce to find any lady thus in- 
different to his merits ; and proved such an awakening to his 
ambition, that he resolved, if possible, to recommend himself to 
Gertrude, and consequently improved every opportunity of gain- 
ing admittance to her society. 

While laboring, however, to inspire her with a due appreciation 
of himself, he fell into his own snare ; for, though he failed in 
awakening Gertrude’s interest, he could not be equally insensible 
to her attractions. Even the comparatively dull intellect of Ben 
B’-ace was capable of measuring her vast superiority to most 
girls of her age , and her vivacious originality was a contrast to 
the insipidity of fashionable life, which at length completely 
charmed him. 

His ean estness and perseverance began to annoy the object 


256 


THE LAMPLIGHT EK. 


of his admiration before she left Mr. Graham’s in the autumn, 
and she was glad soon after to hear that he had accompanied his 
mother to Washington, as it insured her against meeting him again 
for months to come. 

Mr. Bruce regretted losing sight of Gertrude, but amid the 
gayety and dissipation of southern cities contrived to waste his 
time with tolerable satisfaction. He was reminded of her again 
on meeting the Graham party at New Orleans, and it is some 
credit to his understanding to say, that in the comparison which 
he constantly drew between her and the vain daughters of 
fashion she stood higher than ever in his estimation. He did 
not hesitate to tell her so on the morning already mentioned, 
when, with evident satisfaction, he had recognized and joined her ; 
and the increased devotion of his words and manner, which now 
took a tone of truth in which they had before been wanting, 
alarmed Gertrude, and led to a serious resolve on her part to 
avoid him on all possible occasions. It will soon be seen how 
difficult she found it to carry out this resolution. 

On the day succeeding the one of which we have been speak- 
ing, Mr. Graham returned from the city about noon, and, joining 
the young ladies in the entry, unfolded his newspaper, and, hand- 
ing it to Kitty, asked her to read the news. 

“ What shall I read ? ” said Kitty, taking the paper rather 
unwillingly. 

“ The leading article, if you please.” 

Kitty turned the paper inside and out, looked hastily up and 
down its pages, and then declared her inability to find it. Mr. 
Graham stared at her in astonishment, then pointed in silence to 
the wished-for paragraph. She began, but had scarcely read a 
sentence before Mr. Graham stopped her, saying, impatiently, 
“ Don’t read so fast, — I can’t hear a single word ! ” She now 
fell into the other extreme, and drawled so intolerably that her 
auditor interrupted her again, and bade her give the paper to her 
cousin. 

Belle took it from the pouting Kitty, and finished the artic. e,— 
not, however, without being once or twice compelled to go bad 
and read more intelligibly. 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


257 


•» Do you wish to hear anything more, sir ? ” asked she. 

“ Yes ; won’t you turn to the ship-news, and read me the .is* 
by the steamer.” 

Belle, more fortunate than Kitty, found the place, and com- 
menced. “ ‘ At Canton, April 30th, ship Ann Maria, Ray, 
d - i - s - c • g.’ — What does that mean ? ” 

“ Discharging, of course ; go on.” 

“ ‘ S - 1 - d — a-b-t 13th,’ ” spelt Belle, looking dreadfully 
puzzled all the while. 

“ Stupid ! ” muttered Mr. Graham, almost snatching the paper 
out of her hands ; “ not know how to read ship-news ! Where ’s 
Gertrude ? Where ’s Gertrude Flint ? She ’s the only girl I 
ever saw that did know anything. Won’t you speak to her, 
Kitty ? ” 

Kitty went, though rather reluctantly, to call Gertrude, and 
told her for what she was wanted. Gertrude was astonished ; 
since the day when she had persisted in leaving his house, Mr. 
Graham had never asked her to read to him ; but, obedient to the 
summons, she presented herself, and, taking the seat which Belle 
had vacated near the door, commenced with the ship-news, and, 
without asking any questions, turned to various items of intelli- 
gence, taking them in the order which she knew Mr. Graham 
preferred. 

The old gentleman, leaning back in his easy-chair, and resting 
his gouty foot upon an ottoman opposite to him, looked amazingly 
contented and satisfied ; and when Belle and Kitty had gone off 
to their room, he remarked, “ This seems like old times, does n’t 
it, Gertrude ? ” He now closed his eyes, and Gertrude was soon 
made aware, by his deep breathing, that he had fallen asleep. 

Seeing that, as he sat, it would be impossible for her to pass 
without waking him, she laid down the paper, and was preparing 
to draw some work from her pocket (for Gertrude seldom spent 
her time in idleness), when she observed a shadow in the door 
way, and, looking up, saw the very person whom she had yestei 
day resolved to avoid. 

Mr. Bruce was staring in her face, with an indolent air of ease 
and confidence, which she always found very offensive. He had 
22 ^ 


258 


THE LAMPLIGHTETt. 


in one han 1 a bunch of roses, which he held up to her admiring 
gaze. 

“ Very beautifu. ! ” said Gertrude, as she glanced at the little 
branches, covered with a luxurious growth of moss-rose buds 
both pink and white. 

She spoke in a low voice, fearing to awaken Mr. Graham 
Mr. Bruce, therefore, softening his to a whisper, remarked, as he 
dangled them above her head, “ I thought they were pretty when 
I gathered them, but they suffer from the comparison, Miss Ger- 
trude ; ” and he gave a meaning look at the roses in her cheeks. 

Gertrude, to whom this was a stale compliment, coming from 
Mr. Bruce, took no notice of it, but, rising, advanced to make 
her exit by the front-door, saying, “ I will go across the piazza, 
Mr. Bruce, and send the ladies word that you are here.” 

“ 0, pray don’t ! ” said he, putting himself in her way. It 
would be cruel ; I have n’t the slightest wish to see them.” 

He so effectually prevented her, that she was unwillingly com- 
pelled to retreat from the door and resume her seat. As she did 
so, she took her work from her pocket, her countenance in the 
mean time expressing vexation. 

Mr. Bruce looked his triumph, and took advantage of it. 

“ Miss Gertrude,” said he, “ will you oblige me by wearing 
these flowers in your hair to-day ? ” 

“ I do not wear gay flowers,” replied Gertrude, without lift- 
ing her eyes from the piece of muslin on which she was employed. 

Supposing this to be on account of her mourning (for she wore 
a plain black dress), he selected the white buds from the rest, and, 
presenting them to her, begged that, for his sake, she would 
display them in contrast with her dark silken braids. 

“I am much obliged to you,” said Gertrude,; “I never saw 
more beautiful roses, but I am not accustomed to be so much 
dressed, and believe you must excuse me.” 

“ Then you won’t take my flowers ? ” 

“ Certainly I will, with pleasure,” said she, rising, “ if you 
will let me get a glass of water, and place them in the parlor, 
fcfiere we can all enjoy them.” 

“ I did not cut my flowers, and bring them here, for the ben* 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


259 


efit, of the whole household,” said Ben, in a half-offended tone, 
“If you woc.’t wear them. Miss Gertrude, 1 will offer thi<m to 
somebody that will.” 

This, he thought, would alarm her, for his vanity was such 
that he attributed her behavior wholly to coquetry, and, as in- 
stances of this sort had always served to enhance his admiration, 
he believed that they were intended to produce that effect. “ I 
will punish her,” thought he, as he tied the roses together again, 
and arranged them for presentation to Kitty, whom he knew 
would be flattered to receive them. 

“ Where ’s Fanny to-day ? ” asked Gertrude, anxious to divert 
the conversation. 

“ 1 don’t know,” answered Ben, with a manner which implied 
that he had no idea of talking about Fanny. 

X short silence ensued, during which he gazed idly at Ger- 
trude’s fingers, as she sat sewing. 

“ How attentive you are to your work ! ” said he, at last ; “ your 
eyes seem nailed to it. I wish I were as attractive as that piece 
of muslin ! ” 

“ I wish you were as inoffensive,” thought Gertrude. 

“ I do not think you take much pains to entertain me,” added 
he, “ when I ’ve come here on purpose to see you.” 

“ I thought you came by Mrs. Graham’s invitation,” said 
Gertrude. 

“ And did n’t I have to court Kitty for an hour in order to 
get it ? ” 

“ If you obtained it by artifice, ” said Gertrude, smiling, “ you 
do not deserve to be entertained.” 

“ It is much easier to please Kitty than you,” remarked Ben. 

“ Kitty is very amiable and pleasant,” said Gertrude. 

“ Yes, but I ’d give more for one smile from you than — ” 

Gertrude now interrupted him with, “ Ah here is an old 
friend coming to see us ; please let me pass, Mr. Bruce. 

The gate at the end of the yard swung to as she spoke and 
Ben, looking in that direction, beheld approaching the person 
whom G irtrude seemed desirous to go and m6et 


aid Ben ; “ that 


26 o 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


little crone, whose coming seems to give you so much satisfac 
tion, can’t get here this half-hour, at the rate she is travelling.” 

“ She is an old friend,” replied Gertrude ; “ I must go and wel 
come her.” Her countenance expressed so much earnestness 
that Mr. Bruce was ashamed to persist in his incivility, and, 
rising, permitted her to pass. Miss Patty Pace - - lor she it was 
who was toiling up the yard — seemed overjoyed at seeing Ger- 
trude, and, the moment she recognized her, commenced waving, 
in a theatrical manner, a huge feather fan, her favorite mode of 
salutation. As she drew near, Miss Patty took her by both 
hands, and stood talking with her some minutes before they 
proceeded together up the yard. They entered the house at the 
side-door, and Ben, being thus disappointed of Gertrude’s return, 
sallied out into the garden, in hopes to attract the notice^ of 
Kitty. 

Ben Bruce had such confidence in the power of wealth and a 
high station in fashionable life, that it never occurred to him to 
doubt that Gertrude would gladly accept his hand and fortune, 
if it were placed at her disposal. No degree of coldness, or even 
neglect, on her part, would have induced him to believe that an 
orphan girl, without a cent in the world, would forego such an 
opportunity to establish herself. 

Many a prudent and worldly-wise mother had sought his 
acquaintance ; many a young lady, even among those who pos- 
sessed property and rank of their own, had received his attention 
with favor ; and believing, as he did, that he had money enough 
to purchase for a wife any woman whom he chose to select, he 
would have laughed at the idea that Gertrude would presume to 
hold herself higher than the rest. 

He had not made his mind up to such an important step, 
however, as the deliberate surrender of the many advantages of 
which he was the fortunate possessor. He had merely deter- 
mined to win Gertrude’s good opinion and affection ; and, although 
more interested in her than he was aware of himself, he at present 
made that his ultimate object. He felt conscious that as yet she 
had given no evidence of his success ; and, having resolved to 
resort to some new means of winning her. he, with » too common 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


261 


selfishness and baseness, fixed upon a method which was calcu- 
lated, if successful, to end in the mortification if not the unhap- 
piness, of a third party. He intended by marked devotion to 
Kitty Ray, to excite the jealousy of Gertrude ; and it was with 
the view to furthering his intentions that he walked in the garden, 
hoping to attract her observation. 

O ! it was a shameful scheme ! for Kitty liked him already 
She was a warm-hearted girl, — a credulous one too, and likely to 
become a ready victim to his duplicity 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


Xb this the world of which we want a sight t 
Are these the beings who are called polite f 

Hannah More. 

A halt-hour before dinner, Mrs. Graham and her nieces, Mr. 
Bruce, his sister Fanny, and Lieutenant Osborne, as they sat 
in the large parlor, had their curiosity much excited by the mer- 
riment which seemed to exist in Emily’s room, directly above. It 
was not noisy or rude, but strikingly genuine. Gertrude’s clear 
laugh was very distinguishable, and even Emily joined frequently 
in the outburst which would every now and then occur ; while 
still another person appeared to be of the party, as a strange and 
most singular voice occasionally mingled with the rest. 

Kitty ran to the entry two or three times, to listen, and hear, 
if possible, the subject of their mirth, and at last returned with 
the announcement that Gertrude was coming down stairs with the 
very queen of witches. 

Presently Gertrude opened the door, which Kitty had slammed 
behind her, and ushered in Miss Patty Pace, who advanced with 
measured, mincing steps to Mrs. Graham, and, stopping in front 
of her, made a low curtsey. 

4 -How do you do, ma’am?” said Mrs. Graham, half inclined to 
believe that Gertrude was playing off a joke upon her. 

“ This, I presume, is the mistress,” said Miss Patty. 

Mrs. Graham acknowledged her claim to that title. 

“ A lady of presence ! ” said Miss Patty to Gertrude, In an 
audible whisper, pronouncing each syllable with a manner and 
emphasis peculiar to herself. Then, turning towards Belle, who 
was shrinking into the shadow of a curtain, she approached her 
*xeld up both hands in astonishment, and exclaimed, “ Miss Isa 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


263 


bella, as I still enjoy existence ! and radiant* too, as the morning ! 
Bless my heart ! how your youthful charms have expanded ! * 

Belle had recognized Miss Pace the moment she entered the 
room, but, with foolish pride, was ashamed to acknowledge the 
acquaintance of so eccentric an individual, and would have still 
feigned ignorance, but Kitty now came forward, exclaiming, 
“ Why, Miss Pac where did you come from ? ” 

“ Miss Catharina,' said Miss Pace, taking her hands in an ec- 
stasy of astonishment, “ then you knew me ! Blessings on your 
memory of an old friend ! ” 

“ Certainly, I knew you in a minute ; you ’re not so easily 
forgotten, I assure you. Belle, don’t you remember Miss Pace ? 
It ’s at your house I ’ve always seen her.” 

“ 0 is it she ? ” said Belle, with a poor attempt to conceal the 
fact that, she had any previous knowledge of a person who had 
been a frequent visitor at her father’s house, and was held in 
esteem by both her parents. 

“ I apprehend,” said Miss Patty to Kitty, in the same loud 
whisper, “ that she carries a proud heart.” — Then, without having 
appeared to notice the gentlemen, who were directly behind her, 
she added, “ Sparks, I see, Miss Catharina, young sparks ! 
Whose ? — yours, or hers ? ” 

Kitty laughed, for she saw that the young men heard her 
and were much amused, and replied, without hesitation, “ 0, 
mine, Miss Patty, mine, both of ’em ! ” Miss Patty now looked 
round the room, and, missing Mr. Graham, advanced to his wife, 
saying, “ And where, madam, is the bridegroom ? ” 

Mrs. Graham, a little confused, replied that her husband 
would be in presently, and invited Miss Pace to be seated. 

“ No, mistress, I am obliged to you ; I have an inquiring mind, 
and, with your leave, will take a survey of the apartment. I love 
to see everything that is modern.” She then proceeded to ex- 
amine the pictures upon the walls, but had not proceeded far 
before she turned to Gertrude and asked, still loud enough to be 
distinctly heard, “ Gertrude, my dear, what have they done with 
the second wife ? ” Gertrude looked surprised, and Miss Pace 
corrected her remark, saying, “ 0, it is the counterfeit that 1 


264 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


have reference to , the original, I am aware, departed long since 
but where is the counterfeit of the second Mistress Graham ? It 
always hung here, if my memory serves me.” 

Gertrude whispered a reply to this question, and Miss Pace then 
uttered the following soliloquy : “ The garret ! well, ’t is the 
course of nature ; what is new obliterates the recollection , even , 
of the old.” 

She now linked her arm in Gertrude’s, and made her the com- 
panion of her survey. When they had completed the circuit of 
the room, she stopped in front of the group of young people, all 
of whom were eying her with great amusement, claimed ac- 
quaintance with Mr. Bruce, and asked to be introduced to the 
member of the war department, as she styled Lieutenant Osborne. 
Kitty introduced her with great formality, and at the same time 
presented the lieutenant to Gertrude, a ceremony wdiich she felt 
indignant that her aunt had not thought proper to perform. A 
chair was now brought, Miss Patty joined their circle, and enter- 
tained them until dinner-time. Gertrude again sought Emilv’s 
room. 

At the table, Gertrude, seated next to Emily, whose wants she 
always made her care, and with Miss Patty on the other side, 
had no time or attention to bestow on any one else ; much to the 
chagrin of Mr. Bruce, who was anxious she should observe his 
assiduous devotion to Kitty, whose hair was adorned with moss- 
rose buds and her face with smiles. 

Belle was also made happy by the marked admiration of her 
young officer, and no one felt any disposition to interfere with 
either of the well-satisfied girls. Occasionally, however, some 
remark made by Miss Pace irresistibly attracted the attention of 
every one at the table, and extorted either the laughter it was 
intended to excite, or a mirth which, though perhaps ill-timed, it 
was impossible to repress. 

Mr. Graham treated Miss Patty with the most marked polite- 
ness and attention, and Mrs. Graham, who was possessed of great 
suavity of manners when she chose to exercise it, and who 
loved dearly to be amused, spared no pains to bring out the old 
lady’s conversational powers. She found, too, that Miss Patty 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


26o 

was dicqu&mted with everybody, and made most appropriate and 
amusing comments upon almost every person who became the 
topic of conversation. Mr. Graham at last led her to speak of 
herself and her lonely mode of life ; and Fanny Bruce, who sat 
next, asked her, bluntly, why she never got married. 

“Ah, my young miss,” said she, “we all wait our time, and J 
may take a companion yet.” 

“ You should,” said Mr. Graham. “ Now you have property, 
Mias Pace, and ought to share it with some nice, thrifty man.” 
Mr. Graham knew her weak point. 

“ I have but an insignificant trifle of worldly wealth,” said 
Miss Pace, “ and am not as youthful as I have been ; but I may 
suit myself with a companion, notwithstanding. I approve of 
matrimony, and have my eye upon a young man.” 

“ A young man ! ” exclaimed Fanny Bruce, laughing. 

“ 0, yes, Miss Frances,” said Miss Patty ; “I am an admirer 
of youth, and of everything that is modern. Yes, I cling to life 
— I cling to life.” 

“ Certainly,” remarked Mrs. Graham, “ Miss Pace must marry 
somebody younger than herself; some one to whom she can leave 
all her property, if he should happen to outlive her.” 

“Yes,” said Mr. Graham; “at present you would not know 
how to make a will, unless you left all your money to Gertrude, 
here ; I rather think she would make a good use of it.” 

“ That would certainly be a consideration to me,” said Miss 
Pace ; “I should dread the thought of having my little savings 
squandered. Now, I know there ’s more than a sufficiency of 
pauper population, and plenty that would be glad of legacies ; 
but I have no intention of bestowing on such. Why, sir, nine- 
tenths of them will always be poor. No, no ! I should n’t give 
to such ! No, no ! I have other intentions.” 

“ Miss Pace,” asked Mr. Graham, “ what has become of Gen. 
Pace’s family ? ” 

All dead ! ” replied Miss Patty, promptly, “ all dead ! I made 
a pilgrimage to the grave of that branch of the family. It wag 
a melancholy and touching scene,” continued she, in a pathetic 
rone of voice. “ There was a piece of grassy ground, belted about 
28 


266 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


with an iron railing, and in the centre a beautiful white-marble 
monument, in which they were all buried ; it was pure as alabas 
ter and on it was inscribed these lines : 

Pace.’ ” 

“ What were the lines ? ” inquired Mrs. Graham, who believed 
ner ears had deceived her. 

“ Pace, ma’am, Pace; nothing else.” 

Solemn as was the subject, a universal titter pervaded the 
circle ; and Mrs. Graham, perceiving that Kitty and Fanny would 
soon burst into unoontrollable fits of laughter, made the move for 
the company to quit the table. 

The gentlemen did not care to linger, and followed the ladies 
into the wide entry, the refreshing coolness of which invited every 
one to loiter there during the heat of the day. Miss Patty and 
Fanny Bruce compelled the unwilling Gertrude to join the group 
there assembled ; and Mrs. Graham, who was never disposed to 
forego her afternoon nap, was the only member of the family who 
absented herself. 

So universal was the interest Miss Patty excited, that all pri- 
vate dialogue was suspended, and close attention given to whatever 
topic the old lady was discussing. 

Belle maintained a slightly scornful expression of countenance, 
and tried, with partial success, to divert Lieutenant Osborne’s 
thoughts into another channel ; but Kitty was so delighted with 
Miss Pace’s originality, that she made no attempt at any exclusive 
conversation, and, with Mr. Bruce sitting beside her and joining 
in her amusement, looked more than contented. 

Dress and fashion, two favorite themes with Miss Patty, were 
now introduced, and, after discoursing at some lengih upon her love 
of the beautiful, as witnessed in the mantua-making and millinery 
arts, she deliberately left her seat, and going towards Belle (the 
only one of the company who seemed desirous to avoid her), began 
to examine the material of her dress, and finally requested her to 
rise and permit her to further inspect the mode in which it was 
made, declaring the description of so modern and finished a mas- 
ter-piece of art would be a feast to the ears of some of her junior 
acquaintances 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


2(5*S 

Belle* indignantly refused to comply, and shook off the hand 
of the cld lady as if there had been contamination in her touch 

“ Do stand up, Belle,” said Kitty, in an under tone ; u don’* 
be so cross.” 

4 Why don’t you stand up yourself,” said Belle, 44 and show 
off your own dress, for the benefit of her low associates ? ” 

* 44 She didn’t ask me to,” replied Kitty, “but I will, with the 
greatest pleasure, if she will condescend to look at it. Miss 
Pace,” continued she, gayly, placing herself in front of th( 
inquisitive Miss Patty, “do admire my gown at your leisure, 
and take a pattern of it, if you like ; I should be proud of the 
honor.” 

For a wonder, Kitty’s dress was pretty and well worthy ot 
observation. Miss Patty made many comments, especially on 
the train, as she denominated its unnecessary and inconvenient 
length ; and then, her curiosity being satisfied, commenced retreat- 
ing towards the place she had left, first glancing behind her to 
see if it was still vacant, and then moving towards it with a back- 
ward motion, consisting of a series of curtseys. 

Fanny Bruce, who stood near, observing that she had made an 
exact calculation how many steps would be required to reach her 
seat, placed her hand on the back of the chair, as if to draw it 
away ; and, encouraged by a look and smile from Isabel, moved 
it, slightly, but still enough to endanger the old lady’s. safety. 

On attempting to regain it, Miss Pace stumbled, and would 
have fallen, but Gertrude — who had been watching Fanny’s pro- 
ceedings — sprung forward in time to fling an arm around her 
and place her safely in the chair, casting at the same time a 
reproachful look at Fanny; who, much confused, turned to avoid 
Gertrude’s gaze, and in doing so accidentally trod on Mr. Gra- 
ham’s gouty toes, which drew from him an exclamation of pah; 

“ Fan,” said Mr. Bruce, who hid observed the latter accideni 
only, “ I wish you could learn politeness.” 

“ Who am I to learn it from ? ” asked Fanny* pertly, — “ you ? ” 

Ben lroked provoked, but forbore to reply ; while Miss Pace, 
who had now recovered her composure v took up the word and 
saH 


268 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


“Politeness 1 Ah, a lovely, but rare virtu); perceptibly 
developed, however, in the manners of my friend Gertrude, 
which I hesitate not to affirm would well become a princess.” 

B die curled her lip, and smiled disdainfully. “ Lieutenant 
Osborne,” said she, “ don’t you think Miss Devereux has beautiful 
manners ? ” 

“Very fine,” replied the lieutenant; “the style in which she 
receives company, on her reception-day, is elegance itself.” 

“ Who are you speaking of s ” inquired Kitty ; “ Mrs. Harry 
Noble ? ” 

“ Miss Devereux, we were remarking upon,” said Belle, “ but 
Mrs. Noble is also very stylish.” 

“ I think she is,” said Mr. Bruce ; “ do you hear, Fanny ? — 
we have found a model for you, — you must imitate Mrs. Noble. 

“I don’t know anything about Mrs. Noble,” retorted Fanny 
“ I ’d rather imitate Miss Flint. Miss Gertrude,” said she 
with a seriousness which Gertrude rightly believed was intended 
to express regret for her late rudeness, “ how shall I learn polite- 
aess ? ” 

“ Do you remember,” asked Gertrude, speaking low, and giv- 
ing Fanny a look full of meaning, “what your music-master 
told you about learning to play with expression ? I should give 
you the same rule for improvement in politeness.” 

Fanny blushed deeply. 

“ What is that ? ” said Mr. Graham ; “ let us know, Fanny, 
what is Gertrude's rule for politeness.” 

“ She only said,” answered Fanny, “ that it was the same my 
music-master gave me last winter.” 

“ And what did he say ? ” inquired her brother, with a tone of 
interest. 

“ I asked Mr. Hermann,” said Fanny, “ how I should learn to 
play with expression, and he said, 4 You must cultivate your heart 
Miss Bruce ; you must cultivate your heart' ” 

This new direction for the attainment of a great accomplish- 
ment was received with countenances that indicated as great a 
variety of sentiment as there was difference of character among 
Fanny’s audience. Mr Graham bit his lip, and walked away * 


THE LAMPILGHTEU. 


269 


fth a * j. olitenee& was founded on no such rule, and he knew tha\ 
Gertivd3’s was. Belle looked glorious disdain; Mr. Bruce and 
Kitty, puzzled and half amused white Lieutenant Osborne proved 
himsoif not quite callous to a noble truth, by turning upon 
Gertrude a glance of admiration and interest. Emily’s face 
evidenced how fully she ci incided in the opinion thus uninten- 
tionally made public, and Miss Patty unhesitatingly expressed 
her approbation. 

“ Miss Gertrude’s remark is undeniably a verity,” said she. 
"The only politeness which is trustworthy is the spontaneous 
offering of the heart. Perhaps this goodly company of masters 
and misses would condescend to give ear to an old woman’s tale 
of a rare instance of true politeness, and the fitting reward it 
met.” 

All professed a strong desire to hear Miss Patty’s story, and 
she began : 

“ On a winter’s day, some years ago, an old woman of many 
foibles and besetting weaknesses, but with a keen eye and her 
share of worldly wisdom, — Miss Patty Pace by name, — started 
by special invitation for the house of one worshipful Squire Clin- 
ton, the honored parent of Miss Isabella, the fair damsei yonder. 
Every tall tree in our good city was spangled with frost-work, 
more glittering far than gems that sparkle in Golconda’s mine, 
and the nide-walks were a snare to the feet of the old and the 
unwary. 

“I lost my equilibrium, and fell. Two gallant gentlemen 
lifted and carried me to a neighboring apothecary’s emporium, 
restored my scattered wits, and revived me with a fragrant 
cordial. I went on my way with many a misgiving, however, and 
scarcely should I have reached my destination with bones un- 
broken, had it not been for a knight with a rosy countenance, who 
overtook me, placed my old arm within his own more strong and 
youthful one, and protected my steps to the very end of my 
journey. No slight courage either, my young misses, did my 
noble escort need, to carry him through what he had undertaken. 
Paint to your imaginations a youth fresh and beautiful as a sun- 
beam, straight as an arr)w, — a perfect Apollo, indeed, — linked 
23 * 


270 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


to t'ne little bent body of poor Miss Patty Pace. I will not 
spare myself, young ladies ; for, had you seen me then, you would 
consider me now vastly ameliorated in outward presentment 
My double row of teeth were stowed away in my pocket, my 
frisette was pushed back from my head by my recent fall, and my 
gogs — the same my father wore before me — covered my face, 
and they alone attracted attention, and created some excitement. 
But he went on unmoved ; and, in spite of many a captivating 
glance and smile from long rows of beautiful young maidens 
whom we met, and many a sneer from the youths of his own age, 
he sustained my feeble form with as much care as if I had been 
an empress, and accommodated his buoyant step to the slow move- 
ment which my infirmities compelled. Ah ! what a spirit of con- 
formity he manifested ! — my knight of the rosy countenance ! — 
Could you have seen him, Miss Catharina, or you, Miss Frances, 
your palpitating hearts would have taken flight forever. He was 
a paragon, indeed. 

“ Whither his own way tended I cannot say, for he moved in 
conformity to mine, and left me not until I was safe at the abode 
cf Mistress Clinton. I hardly think he coveted my old heart, 
but I sometimes believe it followed him ; for truly he is still a 
frequent subject of my meditations. ,, 

“ Ah ! then that was his reward ! ” exclaimed Kitty. 

“ Not so, Miss Kitty ; guess again.” 

“ I can think of nothing so desirable, Miss Patty.” 

“ His fortune in life , Miss Catharina, — that was his reward ; it 
may be that he cannot yet estimate the full amount of his recom- 
pense.” 

How so ? ” exclaimed Fanny. 

“ I will briefly narrate the rest. Mistress Clinton encouraged 
me always to converse much in her presence. She knew my taste, 
was disposed to humor me, and I was pleased to be indulged. 1 
told my story, and enlarged upon the merits of my noble youth, 
and his wonderful spirit of conformity. The squire, a gentleman 
who estimates good breeding, was present, with his ws open • 
and when I recommended my knight with all the eloquence I 
sould emmard, lie was amused, interested, pleased. He prom 


THE LAMPLiUHTER. 


271 


isea to see the boy, and did so; the noble features spake fot 
themselves, and gained him a situation as clerk, from which he 
has since advanced in the ranks, until now he occupies the posi- 
tion of partner and confidential agent in a creditable and wealthy 
-muse. Miss Isabella, it would rejoice my heart to hear the 
atest tidings from Mr. William Sullivan.” 

“ He is well, I believe,” said Isabella, sulkily. “ I know noth- 
ng to the contrary.” 

“ 0, Gertrude knows,” said Fanny. “ Gertrude knows all 
about Mr. Sullivan ; she will tell you.” 

All turned, and looked at Gertrude, who, with face flushed, 
and eyes glistening with the interest she felt in Miss Patty’s nar- 
rative, stood leaning upon Emily’s chair. Miss Patty now 
appealed to her, much surprised, however, at her having any 
knowledge of her much-admired and well-remembered young 
escort. Gertrude drew near, and answered all her questions 
without the least hesitation or embarrassment, but in a tone of 
voice so low that the others, most of whom felt no interest in 
Willie, entered into conversation, and left her and Miss Patty to 
discourse freely concerning a mutual friend. 

Gertrude gave Miss Pace a brief account of the wonder and 
curiosity which Willie and his friends had felt concerning the 
original author of his good fortune ; and the old lady was so 
entertained and delighted at hearing of the various conjectures 
and doubts which arose on the reception of Mr. Clinton’s unex 
pected summons, and of the matter being finally attributed to 
the agency of Santa Claus, that her laugh was nearly as loud, 
and quite as heart-felt, as that of the gay party near the dooi- 
step, whom Kitty and Fanny had excited to unusual merriment. 
Miss Pace was just taxing Gertrude with interminable compli- 
ments and messages of remembrance to be despatched in her next 
letter to Willie, when Mrs. Graham presented herself, refreshed 
both in dress and countenance since her nap, and arrested the 
attention of the whole company, by exclaiming, in her abrupt 
manner an^ loud tones, 

“ What ! are you all here still I thought you were bound 


272 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


for a walk in the woods. Kitty, what has become of youi eher* 
ished scheme of climbing Sunset Hill ? ” 

I proposed it, aunt, an hour ago, but Belle insisted it was to® 
warm. I think the weather is just right for a walk.” 

“ It will soon be growing cool,” said Mrs. Graham, “ and I think 
you had better start; it is some distance if you go round 
through the woods.” 

“ Who knows the way ? ” asked Kitty. 

No one responded to the question, and, on being individually 
appealed to, all professed total ignorance ; much to the astonish- 
ment of Gertrude, who believed that every part of the woody 
ground and hill beyond were familiar to Mr. Bruce. She did 
not stay, however, to hear any further discussion of their plans ; 
for Emily was beginning to suffer from headache and weariness, 
and Gertrude, perceiving it, insisted that she should seek the 
quiet of her own room, to which she herself accompanied her. 
She was just closing the chamber-door, when Fanny called from 
the staircase, “ Miss Gertrude, an’t you going to walk with us ? ” 

“ No,” replied Gertrude, “ not to-day.” 

“ Then I won’t go,” said Fanny, “ if you don’t. Why don’t 
you go, Miss Gertrude ? ” 

I shall walk with Miss Emily, by and by, if she is well 
enough ; you can accompany us, if you like, but I think you 
would enjoy going to Sunset Hill much more.” 

Meantime a whispered consultation took place below, in which 
some one suggested that Gertrude was well acquainted with the 
path which the party wished to follow through the woods. Belle 
opposed her. being invited to join them ; Kitty hesitated between 
her liking for Gertrude and her fears regarding Mr. Bruce’s 
allegiance; Lieutenant Osborne forbore to urge what BeUe disap- 
prove!; and Mr. Bruce remained silent, trusting to the final 
necessity of her being invited to act as guide, in which capacity 
he had purposely concealed his own ability to serve. This neces- 
sity was so obvious, that, as he had foreseen Kitty was at Iasi 
despatched to find Gertrude and make known their request 


CHAPTER XXX. 


Theri are haughty steps that would walk the globe 
O’er necks of humbler ones. 

Miss L. P. Smith. 

Gertrude would have declined, and made her attendance upon 
Emily an excuse for non-compliance ; but Emily herself, believing 
that the exercise would be beneficial to Gertrude, interfered, and 
begged her to agree to Kitty’s apparently very cordial proposal , 
and, on the latter’s declaring that the expedition must otherwise 
be given up, she consented to join it. To change her slippers for 
thick walking-boots occupied a few minutes only ; a few more 
were spent in a vain search for her fiat hat, which was missing 
from the closet where it usually hung. 

“ What are you looking for ? ” said Emily, hearing Gertrude 
once or twice open and shut the door of the large closet at the 
end of the upper entry. 

“ My hat ; but I don’t see it. I believe I shall have to borrow 
your sun-bonnet again,” and she took up a white sun-bonnet, the 
same she had worn in the morning, and which now lay on the 

bed. 

“ Certainly, my dear,” said Emily. 

“ I shall begin to think it ’s mine, before long,” said Gertrude, 
gayly, as she ran off ; “I wear it so much more than you do.” 
She found Fanny waiting for her ; the rest of the party had 
started and were some distance down the road, nearly out of 
sight. Emily now called from the staircase, “ Gertrude, my 
child, have you thick shoes ? It is always very wet in the meadow 
beyond the Thornton place.” Gertrude assured her that she 
had; but, fearing that thi others were less carefully equipped, 


274 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


inquired of Mrs. Graham whether Belle and Kitty were insured 
against the dampness, possibly the mud, they might encounter. 

Mrs. Graham declared they were not, and was at a loss what 
to do, as they were now quite out of sight, and it would be so 
much trouble foi them to return. 

“ I have some very light India-rubbers,” said Gertrude ; “ I 
will take them with me, and Fanny and I shall be in time to 
warn them before they come to the place.” 

It was an easy matter to overtake Belle and the lieutenant, 
for they walked very slowly, and seemed not unwilling to be left 
m the rear. The reverse, however, was the case with Mr. Bruce 
and Kitty, who appeared purposely to keep in advance ; Kitty 
fastening her steps from her reluctance to allow an agreeable 
rete-a-tete to be interfered with, and Ben from a desire to 
occupy such a position as would give Gertrude a fair opportunity 
to observe his devotion to Kitty, which increased the moment 
she came in sight whose jealousy he was desirous to arouse. 

They had now passed the Thornton farm, and only one field 
separated them from the meadow, which, covered with grass, and 
fair to the eye, was nevertheless in the centre a complete quag- 
mire, and only passable, even for the thickly shod, by keeping 
close to the wall, and thus skirting the field. Gertrude and 
Fanny were some distance behind, and already nearly out of 
breath with a pursuit in which the others had gained so great an 
advantage. As they were passing the farm-house, Mrs. Thorn- 
ton appeared at the door and addressed Gertrude, who, fore- 
seeing that she should be detained some minutes, bade Fanny 
run on, acquaint her brother and Kitty with the nature of the 
soil in advance, and beg them to wait at the bars until the rest 
of the party came up. Fanny was too late, notwithstanding the 
haste she made ; they were half across the meadow when she 
reached the bars, proceeding, however, in perfect safety, for Mr. 
Bruce was conducting Kitty by the only practicable path, close 
under the wall, proving to Gertrude, who in a few moments joined 
Fanny, that he was no stranger to the place. When they were 
about half-way across, they seemed to encounter some obstacle 
for Kitty stood poised on one foot ar d clinging to the wall, while 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


275 


Mr. Bruce placed a few stepping-stones across the path. He 
then helped her over, and they went on, their figures soon dis- 
appearing in the grove beyond. 

Isabel and the lieutenant were so long making their appear- 
ance that Fanny became very impatient, and urged Gertrude to 
leave them to their fate. They at last turned the corner near 
the farm-house, and came on, Belle maintaining her leisurely 
pace al though it was easy to be seen that the others weve waiting 
for her. 

“ Are you lame, Miss Clinton ? ” called out Fanny, a» soon as 
they were within hearing. 

“ Lame ! ” said Belle ; “ what do you mean ? ” 

“ Why, you walk so slow,” said Fanny, “ I thought something 
must be the matter with your feet.” 

Belle disdained any reply to this, and, tossing her head, entered 
the damp meadow, in close conversation with her devoted young 
officer, not deigning even to look at Gertrude, who, without 
appearing to notice her haughtiness, took Fanny’s hand, and 
turning away from the direct path, to make the circuit of the 
field, said to Belle, with an unruffled ease and courtesy of 
manner, “ This way, if you please, Miss Clinton ; we have been 
waiting to guide you through this wet meadow.” 

“ Is it wet ?” asked Belle, in alarm, glancing down at her del 
icate slipper ; she then added, in a provoked tone, “ I should have 
thought you would have known better than to bring us this way. 
I shan’t go across.” 

“ Then you can go back,” said the pert Fanny ; “ nobody 
eares.” 

“ It was not my proposition,” remarked Gertrude, mildly, 
though with a heightened color, “ but I think I can help you 
through the difficulty. Mrs. Graham was afraid you had worn 
thin shoes, and I brought you a pair of India-rubbers ” 

Belle took them, and, without the grace to express any thanks, 
said, as she unfolded the paper in which they were wrapped 
v * Whose are they ? ” 

‘ Mine,” replied Gertrude. 


276 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


“ I don’t believe I can keep them on,” muttered Belle ; “ they 11 
ue immense, I suppose.” 

“ Allow me,” said the lieutenant ; and, taking one of the 
shoes, he stooped to place it on her foot, but found it difficult to 
do so, as it proved quite too small. Belle, perceiving this to be 
the; case, bent down to perform the office for herself, and treated 
Gertrude’s property with such angry violence that she snapped 
the slender strap which passed across the instep, and even then 
only succeeded in partially forcing her foot into the shoe. 

Meantime, as she bent forward, Fanny’s attention was attracted 
by a very tasteful broad-brimmed hat, which she wore jauntily 
*et on one side of her head, and which Fanny at once recognized 
as Gertrude’s. It was a somewhat fanciful article of dress, that 
Gertrude would hardly have thought of purchasing for herself, 
but which Mr. Graham had selected and brought home to her 
the previous summer, to replace a common garden hat which he 
had accidentally crushed and ruined As the style of it was 
simple and in good taste, she had been in the habit of wearing it 
often in her country walks, and usually kept it hung in the entry 
closet, where it had been found and appropriated by Belle. It 
had been seen by Fanny in Gertrude’s room at Mrs. Warren’s ; 
she had also been permitted to wear it on one occasion, when she 
took part in a charade and could not be mistaken as to its 
identity. Having heard Gertrude remark to Emily upon its 
being missing, she was astonished to see it adorning Belle ; and, 
as she stood behind her, deliberately pointed, made signs to Ger- 
trude, opened her eyes, distorted her countenance, and performed 
a series of pantomimic gestures expressive of an intention to 
snatch it from Miss Clinton’s head, and place it on that of its 
rightful owner. 

Gertrude’s gravity nearly gave way ; she shook her head at 
Fanny, held up her finger, made signs for her to forbear, and, 
with a face whose laughter was only concealed by the deep white 
bonnet which she wore, took her hand, and hastened with hei 
along the path, leaving Belle and beau to follow. 

“ Fanny,” said she, “you must not make me laugh so ; if Miss 
)linton had seen us. she would have been 'ery much hurt.” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


27; 


She has no business to wear your hat,” said Fanny ; “ and 
-;he shan’t ! ” , 

“ Yes, she shall,” replied Gertrude ; “ she looks beautifully in 
it. 1 am delighted to have her wear it, and you must not inti 
mate to her that it is mine.” 

Fanny would not promise, and there was a sly look in her eye 
which prophesied mischief. 

The walk through the woods was delightful, and Gertrude and 
her young companion, in the quiet enjoyment of it, had almost 
forgotten that they were members of a gay party, when they 
suddenly came in sight of Kitty and Mr. Bruce. They were 
sitting at the foot of an old oak, Kitty earnestly engaged in the 
manufacture of an oak-wreath, which she was just fitting to her 
attendant’s hat; while he himself, when Gertrude first caught 
sight of him, was leaning against the tree in a careless, listless 
attitude. As soon, however, as he perceived their approach, he 
bent forward, inspected Kitty’s work, and, when they came 
within hearing, was uttering a profusion of thanks and compli- 
ments, which he took care should reach Gertrude’s ears, and 
which the blushing, smiling Kitty received with manifest pleasure, 
— a pleasure which was still further enhanced by her perceiving 
that Gertrude had apparently no power to withdraw his attention 
from her, but that, on the contrary, he permitted her rival to 
seat herself at a distance, and continued to pour into her own ear 
little confidential nothings. Poor, simple Kitty ! she believed 
him honest, while he bought her heart with counterfeits. 

“ Miss Gertrude,” said Fanny, “ I wish we could go into some 
pine woods, so that I could get some cones to make baskets and 
frames of.” 

“There are plenty of pines in that direction,” said Gertrude, 
pointing with her finger. 

“ Why can’t we go and look for cones * ” asked Fanny ; “ we 
could get back by the time Belle Clinton reaches this place.” 

Gertrude professed her willingness to do so, and she and 
Fanny sta-rted off, having first tied their bonnets to the branch 
of a tree. They were gone some time, for Fanny found plenty 
of cones, and made a large colle tion of them, but was then at a 
* 24 


THE LAMPLIGHTEIt. 




oss how to carry them home. “ I have thought,” said she, at 
last ; “ I will run back and borrow brother Ben’s handkm chief, 
or, if he won’t let me have it, I ’ll take my own bonnet and fill it 
full.” Gertrude promised to await her return, and she ran off 
When she came near the spot where she had left Kitty and Mr 
Bruce, she heard several voices and loud laughter. Belle and 
the lieutenant had arrived, and they were having great sport 
abo» j t something. Belle was standing with the white cape-bonnet 
in her hand. She had bent it completely out of shape, so as h, 
give it the appearance of an old woman’s cap, had adorned the 
front with white-weed and dandelions and finally pinned on a 
handkerchief to serve as a veil. It certainly looked very ridic- 
ulous ; — she was holding it up on the end of the lieutenant’s 
cane, and endeavoring to obtain a bid for Miss Flint’s brida. 
bonnet. 

Fanny listened a moment with an indignant countenance, then 
advanced with a bound, as if just running from the woods. 
Kitty caught her frock as she passed, and exclaimed, “ Why. 
Fanny, are you here ? Where ’s Gertrude ? ” 

“ 0, she ’s in the pine woods ! ” replied Fanny, “ and I ’m 
going right back ; she only sent me to get her hat, the sun ’s se> 
warm where we are.” 

“ Ah, yes ! ” said Belle, “ her Paris hat. Please give it to 
her, with our compliments.” 

“ No, that is n’t hers,” said Fanny ; “ that is Miss Emily’s. 
This is hers ; ” and she laid her hand upon the straw head-dress 
which the gentlemen had but a moment before been assuring 
Belle was vastly becoming, and, without ceremony, snatched it 
from her head. 

Belle’s eyes flashed angrily. “ What do you mean ? ” said 
she, “ you saucy little creature ! Give me that hat ! ” and she 
stretched out her hand to take it. 

“ I shan’t do any such thing,” said Fanny ; “ it ’s Gertrude’s 
hat. She looked for it this afternoon, but concluded it was 
either lost or stolen, and so borrowed Miss Emily’s cape-bonnet ; 
but she ’ll be very glad to find it, and I ’ll carry it to her. 1 
rather think,” said she, looking over her shoulder, as she ran off 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


279 


11 1 rather think Miss Emily would be willing you should wear 
her bonnet home, if you ’ll be careful and not bend it ! ” 

A few moments of embarrassment and anger to Belle, laughter 
from Kitty and Mr. Bruce, and concealed amusement on Lieu- 
tenant Osborne’s part, and Gertrude came hastily from the 
woods, with the hat in her hand, Fanny following her, and taking 
advantage of Belle’s position, with her back towards her, to 
resume her pantomimic threats and insinuations. “ Miss Clin- 
ton,” said Gertrude, as she placed the hat in her lap, “ I am 
afiaid Fanny has been very rude in my name. I did not send 
her for either hat or bonnet, and shall be pleased to have you 
wear this as often as you like.” 

“ I don’t want it,” said Belle, scornfully ; “ I ’d no idea it 
belonged to you.” 

“ Certainly not ; I am aware of it,” said Gertrude. “ But I 
trust that will not prevent your making use of it for to-day, at 
least.” Without urging the matter further, she proposed that 
they should hasten on to the top of the hill, which they could not 
otherwise reach before sundown ; and set the example by moving 
forward in that direction, Fanny accompanying her, and busying 
herself as she went with stripping the decorations from Emily’s 
despised bonnet ; Belie tying an embroidered handkerchief under 
her chin, and Mr. Bruce swinging on his arm the otherwise 
neglected hat. 

Belle did not recover her temper for the evening; the rest 
found their excursion agreeable, and it was nearly dark when 
they reached the Thornton farm on their return. Here Gertrude 
left them, telling Fanny that she had promised to stop and see 
Jemmy Thornton, one of her Sunday-school class, who was sick 
with a fever, and refusing to let her remain, as her mother might 
not wish her to enter the house where several of the family weru 
sick. 

About an hour after, as Gertrude was walking home in some 
haste, she was joined near Mr. Graham’s house by Mr. Bruce, 
who, with her hat still hanging on his arm, seemed to have been 
awaiting her return. She started on his abruptly joining her 


280 


TTIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


for it vas so dark that she did not at once recognize nim, and 
supposed it might be a stranger. 

“ Miss Gertrude,” said he, “ I hope I don’t alarm you.” 

“ 0. no,” said she reassured by the sound of his voice, “ I did 
not know who it was.” 

He offered his arm, and she took it ; for his recent devotion to 
Kitty had served in some degree to relieve her of any fear she 
had felt lest his attentions carried meaning with them ; and, con- 
cluding that he liked to play beau-general, she had no objection 
to his escorting her home. 

“ We had a very pleasant walk, this evening,” said he ; “ at 
least, I had. Miss Kitty is a very entertaining companion.” 

“ I think she is,” replied Gertrude ; “ I like her frank, lively 
manners much.” 

“ I am afraid you found Fanny rather poor company. I should 
nave joined you occasionally, but I could hardly find an opportu- 
nity to quit Miss Kitty, we were so much interested in what we 
were saying.” 

“ Fanny and I are accustomed to each other, and very happy 
together,” said Gertrude. 

“ Do you know we have planned a delightful drive for to* 
morrow ? ’ ’ 

“No, I was not aware of it.” 

“ I suppose Miss Ray expects I shall ask her to go with me 
but supposing, Miss Gertrude, I should give you the preference 
and ask you, — what should you say ? ” 

“ That I was much obliged to you, but had an engagement to 
take a drive with Miss Emily,” replied Gertrude, promptly. 

“ Indeed ! ” said he, in a surprised and provoked tone, “ I 
thought you would like it ; but Miss Kitty, I doubt not, will ac- 
cept. I will go in and ask her (for they had now reached the 
house). Here is your hat.” 

“ Thank you,” said Gertrude, and would have taken it ; but 
Ben still held it by one string, and said, 

“ Then you won’t go. Miss Gertrude ? ” 

“ My engagement with Miss Emily cannot be postponed on any 


TBE LAMPLIGHTER. 


281 


account/ answered Gertrude, thankful that she had so excellent 
a reason for declining. 

“ Nonsense ! ” said Mr. Bruce ; “ you could go with me if you 
chose ; and, if you don’t, I shall certainly invite Miss Kitty.” 

The weight he seemed to attach to this threat astonished 
Gertrude. “ Can it be possible,” thought she, “ that he expects 
thus to pique and annoy me ? ” and she replied to it by saying, 
** I shall be happy if my declining prove the means of Kitty’s 
enjoying a pleasant drive ; she is fond of variety, and has few 
opportunities here to indulge her ta«te.” 

They now entered the parlor. Mr. Bruce sought Kitty in the 
recess of the window, and Gertrude, not finding Emily present, 
staid but a short time in the room ; long enough, however, to 
observe Mi- > . uce’s exaggerated devotion to Kitty, which was 
marked by uuiers beside herself. Kitty promised to accompany 
him the next day, and did so. Mrs. Graham, Mrs. Bruce, Belle 
and the lieutenant, went also in another vehicle ; and Emily and 
Gertrude, according to their original intention, took a different 
direction, and, driving white Charlie in the old-fashioned buggy 
rejoiced in their quiet independence, 

24 * 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


s 


Sporting at will, and moulding sport to art. 

With that sad holiness — the human heart. 

New Timor. 

And now days and even weeks passed on, and no marked event 
to ^k place in Mr. Graham’s household. The weather became in- 
tensely warm, and no more walks and drives were planned. The 
lieutenant left the neighboring city, which was at this season 
nearly deserted by the friends of Mrs. Graham and her nieces; 
and Isabel, who could neither endure with patience excessive 
heat or want of society, grew more irritable and fretful than 
ever. 

To Kitty, however, these summer-days were fraught with inter- 
est. Mr. Bruce remained in the neighborhood, visited constantly 
at the house, and exercised a marked influence upon her outward 
demeanor and her inward happiness, which were changeable and 
fluctuating as his attentions were freely bestowed or altogether 
suspended. No wonder the poor girl was puzzled to understand 
one w r hose conduct was certainly inexplicable to any but those 
initiated into, his motives. Believing, as he did, that Gertrude 
would in time show a disposition to win him back, he was anxious 
only to carry his addresses to Kitty to such a point as would 
excite a serious alarm in the mind of the poor protegee of the 
Grahams, who dared to slight his proffered advances. Acting 
then as he did almost wholly with reference to Gertrude, it was 
only in her presence, or under such circumstances that he was 
sure it would reach her ears, that he manifested a marked interest 
n Kitty ; and his behavior was, therefore, in the highest degree 
inequal, leading the warm-hearted Kitty to believe one moment 
that be felt for her almost the tenderness of a lover, and the next 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


283 


*o suffer under the apprehension of having unconsciously wounded 
or offended him by her careless gayety or conversation. Unfor- 
tunately, too, Mrs. Graham took every opportunity to tease and 
congratulate her upon her conquest, thereby increasing the sim- 
ple girl’s confidence in the sincerity of Mr. Bruce’s admiration. 

Nor were Mr. Bruce and Kitty the only persons who found 
occasion for vexation and anxiety in this matter. Gertrude, whose 
eyes were soon opened to the existing state of things, was filled 
with regret and apprehension on account of Kitty, for whoso 
peace and welfare she felt a tender and affectionate concern. The 
suspicions to which Mr. Bruce’s conduct gave rise, during the 
scenes which have been detailed, were soon strengthened into con- 
victions ; for, on several occasions, after he had been offering 
Kitty ostentatious proofs of devotion, he thought proper to test 
their effect upon Gertrude by the tender of some attention to 
herself ; more than intimating, at the same time, that she had it 
in her power to rob Kitty of all claim upon his favor. 

Gertrude availed herself of every opportunity to acquaint him 
with the truth, that he could not possibly render himself more 
odious in her eyes than by the use of such mean attempts to 
mortify her ; but, attributing her warmth to the very feeling of 
jealousy which he desired to excite, the selfish young man perse- 
vered in his course of folly and wickedness. As he only proffered 
his attentions, and made no offer of his heart and hand, Gertrude 
did not in the least trust his professions towards herself \ consider- 
ing them merely as intended, if possible, to move her from her firm 
and consistent course of behavior, in order to gratify his self-love. 
But she saw plainly that, however light and vain his motives 
might be in her own case, they were still more so with reference 
to Kitty ; and she was deeply grieved at the evident unconscious- 
ness of this fact which the simple girl constantly exhibited. 

For, strangely enough, Kitty, having quite forgotten that she 
had a few weeks back looked upcn Gertrude as a rival, now chose 
her for her bosom friend and confidant. Her aunt was too coarse 
and rough, Belle too selfish and vain, to be intrusted with little 
matters of the heart ; and, though Kitty had no idea of confessing 
her partiality for Mr. Bruce, the tiansparency of her character 


284 


THE LAMPLIGHT**. 


was such, that she betrayed her secret to Gertrude without being 
in the least aware that she had done so. Though no one but Ger- 
trude appeared to observe it, Kitty was wonderfully changed ; — 
the gay, laughing, careless Kitty had now her fits of musing, — her 
sunny face was subject to clouds, that flitted across it, and robbed 
it of all its brightness. Now, her spirits were unnaturally free 
and lively ; and now, she wore a pensive expression, and, stealth- 
ily lifting her eyes, fixed them anxiously on the face of Mr 
Bruce, as if studying his temper or his sentiments. If she saw 
Gertrude walking in the garden, or sitting alone in her room, 
she would approach, throw her arm around her, lean against her 
shoulder, and talk on her favorite topic. She would relate, 
with a mixture of simplicity and folly, the complimentary 
speeches and polite attentions of Mr. Bruce ; talk about him for 
an hour, and question Gertrude as to her opinion of his merits, 
and the sincerity of his avowed admiration for herself. She 
would intimate her perception of some fault possessed by him, 
who was in her eyes almost perfection ; and when Gertrude coin- 
cided with her, and expressed regret at the evident failing, she 
would exhaust a great amount of strength and ingenuity in her 
efforts to prove that they were both mistaken in attributing it to 
him, and that, if he had a fault, it was in reality quite the 
reverse. She would ask if Gertrude really supposed he meant all 
he said, and add that of course she did n’t believe he did, — it was 
all nonsense. And if Gertrude embraced the opportunity to avow 
the same opinion, and declare that it was not best to trust all his 
bigh-flown flatteries, poor Kitty’s face would fall, and she would 
proceed to give her reasons for sometimes thinking he was sincere, 
he had such a truthful , earnest way of speaking. 

It was no use to throw out hints, or try to establish safeguards. 
Kitty was completely infatuated. At last Mr. Bruce thought 
proper to try Gertrude’s firmness by offering to her acceptance a 
rich ring. Not a little surprised at his presumption, she declined 
it without hesitation or ceremony, and the next day saw it on the 
finger of Kittj , who was eager to give an account of its presenta- 
tion 

“ Anl did you accept it?” asked Gertrude, with su3b a look of 


THE LAMPUGHTEll. 


m 


astonishment, tTaat Kitty observed it, and evaded, an acknowledg- 
ment of having done so, by saying, with a blushing countenance, 
that she agreed to wear it a little while. 

“ I would n't,” said Gertrude. 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Because, in the first place, I do not think it is in good taste to 
receive rich gifts from gentlemen; and then, again, if strangers 
notice it, you may be subjected to unpleasant, significant remarks.” 

“ What would you do with it : ” asked Kitty. 

“ I should give it back.” 

Kitty looked very undecided ; but, on reflection, concluded to 
offer it to Mr. Bruce, and tell him what Gertrude said. She did 
so, and that gentleman, little appreciating Gertrude’s motives, and 
believing her only desirous of making difficulty between him and 
Kitty, jumped at the conclusion that her heart was won at last, 
and that his triumph would now be complete. He was disap- 
pointed, therefore, when, on his next meeting with her, she 
treated him, as she had invariably done of late, with cool civility ; 
indeed, it seemed to him that she was more insensible than ever to 
his attractions ; and, hastily quitting the house, much to the dis- 
tress of Kitty (who spent the rest of the day in thinking oyer 
everything she had done and said which could by any possibility 
have given offence), he sought his old haunt under the pear-tree, 
md gave himself up to the consideration of a weighty question. 

Seldom did Ben Bruce feel called upon to take serious views of 
any subject ; seldom was he accustomed to rally and marshal the 
powers of his mind, and deliberately weigh the two sides of an 
argument. Living, as he did, with no higher aim than the pro* 
moting of his own selfish gratification, he had been wont to a vail 
himself of every opportunity for amusement and indulgence, and 
even to bring mean and petty artifice to the furtherance of his 
plans. Possessed, as he was, notwithstanding his narrow mind, with 
what is often called “ a good look-out,” he was rarely cheated or 
defrauded of his rights. He knew the value of his money and 
posiuon in life, and never suffered himself to be sacrificed to the 
designs of those who hoped reap a benefit from his companion- 
ship Self-sacrifice , too, was a thing of which he Lad no exp** 


286 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


rience, and with which, as seen in others, he felt no sympathy 
Now, howe7tr, a crisis had arrived when his own interests an/ 
wishes clashed; when necessity demanded that one should be 
immolated at the shrine of the other, and a choice must be made 
between the two. It was certainly a matter which claimed deep 
deliberation ; and if Ben Bruce, for the first time in his life, 
devoted a whole afternoon to careful thought, and an accurate 
measurement of opposing forces, the occurrence must be attrib- 
uted to the fact that he was making up his mind on the most 
important question that ever yet had agitated it. 

“ Shall I,” thought he, “ conclude to marry this poor girl ? 
Shall I, who am master of a handsome fortune, and have addi- 
tional expectations, forego the prospect they afford me of making 
a brilliant alliance, and condescend to share my wealth and sta- 
tion in society with this adopted child of the Grahams ; who, in 
spite of her poverty, will not grant me a smile even, except at 
the price of all my possessions ? If she were one atom less charm- 
ing, I would disappoint her, after all ! I wonder how she ’d fee 
if I should marry Kitty ! I daresay I never should have the sat- 
isfaction of knowing; for she’s so proud that she would come to 
my wedding, for aught I know, bend her slender neck as grace- 
fully as ever, and say, ‘ Good-evening, Mr . Bruce, 1 as politely and 
calmly as she does now, every time I go to the house ! It pro- 
vokes me to see how a poor girl like that carries herself. But, as 
Mrs. Bruce, I should be proud of that manner, certainly. I 
wonder how I ever got in love with her ; — I ’m sure I don’t know. 
She isn’t handsome; at least, mother thinks she isn’t, and so 
does Belle Clinton. But, then again, Lieutenant Osborne noticed 
her the minute she came into the room ; and there ’s Fan raves 
about her beauty. I don’t know what I think myself ; I believe 
she’s bewitched me, so that I’m not capable of judging; but, if 
it is n’t beauty, it is because it ’s something more than mere good 
looks,” 

Thus he soliloquized ; and as, every time he revolved the sub- 
ject he commenced by dwellingupon the immense sacrifice he was 
making, and ended with reflections upon Gertrude’s charms, it 
may well be supposed that he ultimately came to the conclusion 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


'287 


inat he should suffer less by laying his fortune at her feet than 
by the endeavor to enjoy that fortune without her. For a few 
days after he arrived at a resolve on this point, he had no oppor- 
tunity to address a w T ord to Gertrude, who was now doubly anx- 
ious to avoid him, and spent nearly the whole day above stairs 
except when, at Emily’s request, she accompanied her for a shori 
time into the parlor ; and even then she took pains, under soin< 
pretext or other, to remain close by the side of her blind friend 
About this time, Mrs. Graham and Mrs. Bruce, with their fami 
Ae s, received cards for a levee to be held at the house of aa 
acquaintance nearly five miles distant. It was on the occasion 
of the marriage of a schoolmate of Isabel’s, and both she and 
Kitty were desirous to be present. Mrs. Bruce, who had a close 
carriage, invited both the cousins to accompany her ; and, as Mr. 
Graham’s carryall, when closed, would only accommodate himself 
and lady, the proposal was gladly acceded to. 

The prospect of a gay assembly and an opportunity for display 
revived Isabel’s drooping spirits and energy. Her rich evening 
dresses were brought out for the selection of the most suitable 
and becoming ; and as she stood before her mirror, and tried on 
first one wreath and then another, and looked so beautiful in 
aach that it was difficult to make a choice, Kitty, who stood by, 
eagerly endeavoring to win her attention, and obtain her advice con- 
cerning the style and color most desirable for herself, gave up in 
despair, and ran off to consult Gertrude. 

She found her reading in her own room ; but, on Kitty’s abrupt 
entrance, she laid down her book, and gave her undivided attention 
to the subject which was under discussion. 

“Gertrude,” said Kitty, “what shall I wear this evening 
I ’ve been trying to get Belle to tell me, but she never will speak 
a word, or hear what I ask her, when she ’s thinking about her 
own dress ! — I declare, she ’s dreadfully selfish ! ” 

“ Who advises her ? ” asked Gertrude. 

“ O, nobody ; she always decides for herself ; but then she has 
so much taste, and I have n’t the least in the world ! — So, dc tel . 
we, Gertrude, what had I better wear to-night ? ” 


288 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


“ I ’m the last person you should ask, Kitty ; I nevtr went to a 
fashionable party in my life.” 

That does n’t make any difference. I ’m sure, if you did go, 
you ’d look better than any of us ; and I ’m not afraid to trust 
to your opinion, for 1 never in my life saw you wear anything 
that did n’t look genteel ; — even your gingham morning-gown 
has a sort of stylish air.” 

“Stop, stop, Kitty! you are going too far; you must keep 
within bounds, if you want me to believe you.” 

“ Well, then,” said Kitty, “ to say nothing of yourself (for I know 
you’re superior to flattery, Gertrude, — somebody told me so), 
who furnishes Miss Emily’s wardrobe ? Who selects her dresses ? ” 

“ I have done so, lately, but — ” 

“ I thought so ! I thought so ! ” interrupted Kitty. “ I knew 
poor Miss Emily was indebted to you for always looking so nice 
and so beautiful.” 

“No, indeed, Kitty, you are mistaken; I have never seen 
Emily better dressed than she was the first time I met her ; and 
her beauty is not borrowed from art — it is all her own.” 

“0,1 know she is lovely, and everybody admires her ; but no 
one can suppose she would take pains to wear such pretty things, 
and put them on so gracefully, just to please herself.” 

“ It is not done merely to please herself ; it was to please her 
father that Emily first made the exertion to dress with taste as 
well as neatness. I have heard that, for some time after she lost 
her eye-sight, she was disposed to be very careless ; but, having 
accidentally' discovered that it was an additional cause of sorrow 
to him, she roused herself at once, and, with Mrs. Ellis’ assistance, 
contrived always afterwards to please him in that particular. 
But you observe, Kitty, she never wears anything showy or con- 
spicuous.” 

“ No, indeed, — that is what I like ; but, Gertrude, has r’t she 
always been blind ? ” 

“ No ; until she was sixteen she had beautiful eyes, and could 
see as well as you can.” 

“ What happened to her ? How did she lose them ? ” 

“ l don’t know.” 


/ 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 

‘ Did n’t you over ask ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Why not ? — how queer ! ” 

“ I heard that she did n’t like to speak of it.” 

“But she woudd have told you ; she half worships you.” 

If she had wished me to know, she would have told without 

asking.” 

Kitty stared at Gertrude, wondering much at such unusual 
delicacy and consideration, and instinctively admiring a forbear- 
ance of which she was conscious she should herself have been 
incapable. 

‘ But, your dress ! ” said Gertrude, smiling at Kitty’s abstrac- 
tion . 

“ 0, yes ! I had almost forgotten what I came here for,” said 
Kitty. “ What shall it be, then, — thick or thin ; pink, blue, or 
white ? ” 

“ What has Isabel decided upon ? ” 

“ Blue, — a rich blue silk ; that is her favorite color, always , 
but it does n’t become me.” 

“ No, I should think not,” said Gertrude ; “ but come, Kitty, we 
will go to your room and see the dresses, and I will give my 
opinion.” 

Kitty’s wardrobe having been inspected, and Gertrude having 
expressed her preference for a thin and flowing material, especially 
in the summer season, a delicate white crape was fixed upon. And 
now there was a new difficulty ; among all her head-dresses, none 
proved satisfactory, — all were more or less defaced, and none of 
them to be compared with a new and exquisite wreath which 
Isabel was arranging among her curls. 

“ I cannot wear any of them,” said Kitty, “ they look so mean 
by the side of Isabel’s ; but, 0 ! ” exclaimed she, glancing at a 
box which lay on the dressing-table, “ these are just what I should 
like ! 0, Isabel, where did you get these beautiful carnations ? ” 

and she took up some flowers, which were, indeed, a rare imitation 
of nature, and, displaying them to Gertrude, added that they were 
just what she wanted. 

“0, Kitty,” said Isabel, angrily, turning away from the giasSt 

25 


290 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


and obsei ving what her cousin had in her hand, “ don’t touch my 
flowers ! you will spoil them ! ” and, snatching them from her, 
she replaced them in the box, opened a drawer in her bureau, 
and, having deposited them there, took the precaution to lock 
them up and put the key in her pocket, — an action which Ger- 
trude witnessed with astonishment, not unmingled with indigna- 
tion. 

“ Kitty,” said she, “ I will arrange a wreath of natural flowers 
for you, if you wish.” 

“ Will you, Gertrude?” said the disappointed and provoked 
Kitty. “ O, that will be delightful ! I should like it, of all things! 
And, Isabel, you cross old miser, you can keep all your wreaths 
to yourself ! It is a pity you can’t wear two at a time ! ” 

True to her promise, Gertrude prepared a head-dress for Kitty ; 
and so tastefully did she mingle the choicest productions of the 
garden, that, when Isabel saw her cousin arrayed under a more 
careful and affectionate superintendence than she often enjoyed, 
she felt, notwithstanding her own proud consciousness of superior 
beauty, a sharp pang of jealousy of Kitty, and dislike to Gertrude. 

It had been no small source of annoyance to Isabel, who could 
not endure to be outshone, that Kitty had of late been the object 
of marked attention to Mr. Bruce, while she herself had been 
entirely overlooked. Not that she felt any partiality for the gen- 
tleman whom Kitty was so anxious to please ; but the dignity 
conferred on her cousin by his admiration, the interest the affair 
awakened in her aunt, and the meaning looks of Mrs. Bruce, all 
made her feel herself of second-rate importance, and rendered her 
more eager than ever to supplant, in general society, the compar- 
atively unpretending Kitty. Therefore, when Mrs. Graham com- 
plimented the latter on her unusually attractive appearance, and 
declared that somebody would this night be more charmed than 
ever, Isabel curled her lip with mingled disdain and defiance, 
while the blushing Kitty turned to Gertrude and whispered in 
her ear, “Mr. Bruce likes white; he said so, the other day, 
when you passed through the room dressed in your mulled 
muslin.” 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


stnow, then, that I have supported my pretensions to your hand in the 
way that best suited my character. — Ivanhoe. 

Emily was not well this evening. It was often the case, lately 
that headache, unwonted weariness, or a nervous shrinking from 
noise and excitement, sent her to her own room, and sometimes led 
her to seek her couch at an early hour. After Mrs. Graham and 
her nieces had gone down stairs to await Mr. Graham’s pleasure 
and Mrs. Bruce’s arrival, Gertrude returned to Emily' whom she 
had left only a short time before, and found her suffering more 
than usual from what she termed her troublesome head. She was 
easily induced to seek the only infallible cure — sleep ; and 
Gertrude, seating herself on the bed-side, as she was frequently in 
the habit of doing, bathed her temples until she fell into a quiet 
slumber. The noise of Mrs. Bruce’s carriage, coming and going, 
seemed to disturb her a little ; but in a few moments more she was 
so sound asleep that, when Mr. and Mrs. Graham departed, the 
loud voice of the latter, giving her orders to one of the servants, 
did not startle her in the least. Gertrude sat some time longer 
without changing her position ; then, quietly rising and arranging 
everything for the night, according to Emily’s well-known wishes, 
she closed the door gently behind her, sought a book in her own room, 
and, entering the cool and vacant parlor, seated herself at a table . 
. s> enjoy the now rare opportunity for perfect stillness and repose. 

Either her own thoughts, however, proved more interesting than 
the volume she held, or, it may be, the insects, attracted u v the 
bright lamp, annoyed her ; or, the beauty of the evening won her 
observation ; for she soon forsook her seat at the table, and, going 
towards the open glass-doors, placed herself near them, and, lean 
ing her head upon her hand, became absorbed in meditation 


292 


THE LAMPLIGHTEK. 


She had not long sat thus when she heard a foot *step in th« 
room, and, turning, saw Mr. Bruce beside her. She started, and 
exclaimed, “ Mr. Bruce ! is it possible ? I thought you had gone 
tc the wedding.” 

‘ No, there were greater attractions for me at home. Could 
you believe, Miss Gertrude, I should find any pleasure in a party 
which did not include yourself? >J 

“ I certainly should not have the vanity to suppose the reverse,” 
replied Gertrude. 

“ I wish you had a little more vanity, Miss Gertrude. Perhaps 
then you would sometimes believe what I say.” 

“ I am glad you have the candor to acknowledge, Mr. Bruce, 
that, without that requisite, one would find it impossible to put 
faith in your fair speeches. ; 

“ I acknowledge no such thing. I only say to you what any 
other girl but yourself would be willing ' enough to believe ; but 
how shall I convince you that I am serious, and wish to be so 
understood ? How shall I persuade you to converse freely with 
me, and no longer shun my society ? ” . 

“ By addressing me with simple truthfulness, and sparing me 
those words and attentions which I have endeavored to convince 
you are unacceptable to me and unworthy of yourself.” 

“ But I have a meaning, Gertrude, a deep meaning. I have 
been trying for several days to find an opportunity to tell you of 
my resolve, and you must listen to me now ; ” for he saw her 
change color and look anxious and uneasy. “ You must give me 
an answer at once, and one that will, I trust, be favorable to my 
wishes. You like plain speaking ; and I will be plain enough, now 
that my mind is made up. My relatives and friends may talk 
and wonder as much as they please at my choosing a wife who 
has neither money nor family to boast cf ; but I have determined 
to defy them all, and offer, without hesitation, to share my pros- 
pects with you. After all, what is money good for, if it does n*t 
make a man independent to do as he pleases ? And, as to the 
world, I dcn’t see but you can hold your head as high as anybody, 
Gertrud® so, if you ’ve no objection to make, we ’ll play at cross 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


29 * 


purposes no longer/ and consider the thing settled ; ” and he en* 
deavored to take her hand. 

But Gertrude drew back ; the color flushed her cheeks and hei 
eyes glistened as she fixed them upon his face with an expression 
of astonishment and pride that could not be mistaken. 

The calm, penetrating look of those dark eyes spoke f olumes, 
and Mr. Bruce replied to their inquiring gaze in these words : “ I 
hope you are not displeased at my frankness.” 

“ With your frankness,” said Gertrude, calmly ; “ no, that is a 
thing that never displeases me. But what have I unconsciously 
done to inspire you with so much confidence that, while you defend 
yourself for defying the wishes of your friends, you hardly give 
me a voice in the matter ? ” 

“ Nothing,” said Bruce, in an apologizing tone ; “ but I thought 
you had labored under the impression that I was disposed to trifle 
with your affections, and had therefore kept aloof and maintained 
a distance towards me which you would not have done had you 
known how much I was in earnest ; but, believe me, I only ad- 
mired you the more for behaving with so much dignity, and if 
I have presumed upon your favor, you must forgive me. I shall 
be only too happy to receive a favorable answer from you.” 

The expression of wounded pride vanished from Gertrude’s 
face. “ He knows no better,” thought she ; “ I should pity his 
vanity and ignorance, and sympathize in his disappointment ; ” and, 
in disclaiming, with a positiveness which left no room for further 
self-deception, any interest in Mr. Bruce beyond that of an old 
acquaintance and sincere well-wisher, she nevertheless softened her 
refusal by the choice of the mildest language, and terms the least 
likely to grieve or mortify him. She felt, as every true woman 
must under similar circumstances, that her gratitude and considera- 
tion were due to the man who, however little she might esteem him y 
had paid her the highest honor ; and, though her regret in the mat- 
ter was somewhat tempered by the thought of Kitty, and the> 
strangeness of Mr. Bruce’s conduct towards her, now rendered 
doubly inexplicable, she did not permit that reflection, even, tc 
prevent her from maintaining the demeanor, not only of a per* 
25 * 


294 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


feet lady, but of one who, in giving pain to another, laments the 

necessity of so doing. 

She almost felt, however, as if her thoughtfulness for his 
feenngs had been thrown away, when she perceived the spirit in 
which he received her refusal. 

“ Gertrude,” said he, “ you are either trifling with me or youi 
self If you are still disposed to coquet with me, I desire to have 
it understood that I shall not humble myself to urge you further ; 
but if, on the other hand, you are so far forgetful of your own 
interests as deliberately to refuse such a fortune as mine, I think 
it ’s a pity you have n’t got some friend to advise you. Such a 
chance does n’t occur every day, especially to poor school-mis- 
tresses ; and if you are so foolish as to overlook it, I ’ll venture to 
say you ’ll never have another.” 

Gertrude’s old temper rose at this insulting language, beat and 
throbbed in her chafed spirit, and even betrayed itself in the tips of 
her fingers, which trembled as they rested on the table near which 
she stood (having risen as Mr. Bruce spoke ) ; but, though this was 
an unlooked-for and unwonted rebellion of an old enemy, her feel- 
ings had too long been under strict regulation to yield to the blast, 
however sudden, and she replied in a tone which, though slightly 
agitated, was far from being angry, “ Allowing I could so far 
forget myself \ Mr. Bruce, I would not do you such an injustice 
as to marry you for your fortune. I do not despise wealth, for I 
know the blessing it may often be ; but my affections cannot be 
bought with gold ; ” and as she spoke she moved towards the 
door. 

“Stay!” said Mr. Bruce, catching her hand; “listen to ire 
one moment ; let me ask you one question. Are you jealous of 
my late attentions to another ? ” 

“ No,” answered Gertrude ; “ but I confess I have not under- 
stood your motives.” 

“ Did you think,” asked he, eagerly, “ that I cared for that 
silly Kitty ? Did you believe, for a moment, that I had any 
other desire than to show you that my devotion was acceptable 
elsewhere ? No, upon my word, I never had the least particle 
of regard for her my heart has been yours all the time, and I 


\.HE LAMPLIGHTER. 


29ft 


only danced attendance upon her in hopes to win a glance from 
you , — an anxious glance, if might be. 0, how often I have wished 
that you would show one quarter of the pleasure that she did in 
my society ; would blush and smile as she did ; would look sad 
when I was dull, and laugh when I was merry ; so that I might 
flatter myself, as I could in her case, that your heart was won 
But, as to loving her, — pooh ! Mrs. Graham’s poodle-dog might 
as well try to rival you as that soft — ” 

“ Stop ! stop ! ” exclaimed Gertrude ; “ for my sake, if not for 
your own ! 0, how — ” She could say no more, but, sinking into 

the nearest seat, burst into tears, and hiding her face in her hands, 
as had been her habit in childhood, wept without restraint. 

Mr. Bruce stood by in utter amazement ; at last he approached 
her, and asked, in a low voice, “ What is the matter ? what have 
I done ? ” 

It was some minutes before she could reply to the question ; 
then, lifting her head, and tossing the hair from her forehead, she 
displayed features expressive only of the deepest grief, and said* 
in broken accents, “ What have you done ? 0, how can you ask ? 

She is gentle, and amiable, and affectionate. She loves every- 
body, and trusts everybody. You have deceived her, and I was 
the cause of it ! 0, how, how could you do it ! ” 

A most disconcerted appearance did Ben present at her words 
and hesitating was the tone in which he muttered, “ She will get 
over it.” 

“ Get over what ? ” said Gertrude ; “ her love for you ? Per- 
haps so ; I know not how deep it is. But, think of her happy, 
trusting nature, and how it has been betrayed ! Think how she 
believed your flattering words, and how hollow they were, all the 
while! Think how her confidence has been abused !‘ how that 
fatherless and motherless girl, who had a claim to the sympathy 
yf all the world, has been taught a lesson of distrust ! ” 

“ I did n’t think you would take it so,” said Ben 
“ How else could I view it ? y ' asked Gertrude. 1 Could you 
expect tbetc tuch a course would win my respect ? ” 

“ You take it very seriously, Gertrude , such flirtations aw 
common ’’ 


29b 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


“ I am sorry to hear it,” said Gertrude. “ To my mind, un- 
versed in the ways of society, it is a dreadful thing to trifle thurf 
with a human heart. Whether Kitty loves you, is not for 
me to say; but what opinion — -alas! — will she have of your 
sincerity ? ” 

‘ I think you ’re rather hard, Miss Gertrude, when it was my 
*ove for you that prompted my conduct.” 

" Perhaps I am, ” said Gertrude. “ It is not my place to cen 
sure ; I speak only from the impulse of my heart. One orphan 
girl’s warm defence of another is but natural. Perhaps she 
views the thing lightly, and does not need an advocate ; but, O, 
Mr. Bruce, do not think so meanly of my sex as to believe that 
one woman’s heart can be won to love and reverence by the 
author of another’s betrayal ! She were less than woman who 
could be so false to her sense of right and honor.” 

“ Betrayal ! — Nonsense ! you are very high-flown.” 

“ So much so, Mr. Bruce, that half an hour ago I could have 
wept that you should have bestowed your affection where it met 
with no requital ; and if now I weep for the sake of her whose 
ears have listened to false professions, and whose peace has, to say 
the least, been threatened on my account, you should attribute 
it to the fact that my sympathies have not been exhausted by 
contact with the world.” 

A short silence ensued. Ben went a step or twc towards tcie 
door, then stopped, came back, and said, “After all, Gertrude 
Flint, I believe the time will come when your notions will grow 
less romantic, and you will look back to this night and wish you 
had acted differently. You will find out, in time, that this is a 
world where people must look out for themselves.” 

Immediately upon this remark he left the room, and Gertrude 
heard him shut the hall-door with a loud bang as he went out. 

A moment after, the silence that ensued was disturbed by a 
slight sound, which seemed to proceed from the deep recess in the 
window. Gertrude started, and, as she went towards the spot, 
heard distinctly a smothered sob. She lifted a draperied curtain, 
and there, upon the wide window-seat, her head bent over and 
buried in the cushions, and her little slender foi u distorted into a 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


297 


strange and forlorn *btitude, — such as might be seen :u a grieved 
child, — sat., or rathe .' crouched, poor Kitty Hay. The crumpled 
folds of her white crape dress, her withered wreath, — which had 
half fallen from her head, and hung drooping on her shoulders, — 
her disordered hair, and b^v little hand clinging to a thick cord 
connected with the window-curtain, all added to the appearance 
of extreme distress. 

“ Kitty ! ” cried Gertrude, at once recognizing her, although her 
face was hid. 

At the sound of her voice, Kitty sprung suddenly from her 
recumbent posture, threw herself into Gertrude’s arms, laid her 
head upon her shoulder, and, though she did not, could not weep, 
shook and trembled with an agitation which was perfectly uncon- 
trollable. Her hand, which grasped Gertrude’s, was fearfully 
cold ; her eyes seemed fixed ; and occasionally, at intervals, the 
same hysterical sound which had at first betrayed her in her 
hiding-place alarmed her young protector, to whom she clung as 
if seized with sudden fear. Gertrude supported her to a seat, 
and then, folding the slight form to her bosom, chafed the cold 
hands, and again and again kissing the rigid lips, succeeded at 
last in restoring her to something like composure. For an hour 
she lay thus, receiving Gertrude’s caresses with evident pleasure, 
and now and then returning them convulsively, but speaking 
no word, and making no noise. Gertrude, with the truest judg- 
ment and delicacy, refrained from asking questions, or recurring 
to a conversation the whole of which had been thus overheard 
and comprehended ; but, patiently waiting until Kitty grew more 
quiet and calm, prepared for her a soothing draught; and then, 
finding her completely prostrated, both in mind and body, 
passed her arm around her waist, guided her up stairs, and, 
without the ceremony of an invitation, took her into her own 
room where, if she proved wakeful, she would be spared the 
wonder and scrutiny of Isabel. Still clinging to Gertrude, the 
poor girl, to whose relief tears came at last, sobbed herself to 
sleep-; and all her sufferings were for a time forgotten in that 
oblivion in which childhood and youth finl a temporary rest, .and 
often a healing balm to pain. 


298 


HIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


It was otherwise, however, with Gertrude, who, though of nearly 
the same age as Kitty, had seen too muck trouble, experienced 
too much care, to enjoy, in times of disquiet, the privilege of 
sinking easily to repose. She felt under the necessity, too, of 
remaining awake until Isabel’s return, that she might inform her 
what had becomt of Kitty, whom she would be sure to miss from 
the room which they occupied in common. She seated herself, 
therefore, at the window, to watch for her return ; and was pained 
to observe that Kitty tossed restlessly on her pillows, and occa- 
sionally muttered in her sleep, as if distressed by uneasy dreams. 
It was past midnight when Mrs. Graham and her niece returned 
home, and Gertrude went immediately to inform the latter that 
her cousin was asleep in her room. The noise of the carriages, 
however, had awakened the sleeper, and when Gertrude returned 
she was rubbing her eyes, and trying to collect her thoughts. 

Suddenly the recollection of the scene of the evening flashed 
upon her, and, with a deep sigh, she exclaimed, “ 0, Gertrude ! I 
have been dreaming of Mr. Bruce f Should you have thought 
he would have treated me so ? 99 

“ No, I should not,” said Gertrude ; “ but I would n't dream 
about him, Kitty, nor think of him any more ; we will both go to 
sleep and forget him.” 

“ It is different with you,” said Kitty, with simplicity. “ He 
loves you, and you do not care for him ; but I — I — ” Here her 
feelings overpowered her, and she buried her face in the pillow. 

Gertrude approached, laid her hand kindly upon the head of 
the poor girl, and finished the sentence for her. “ You have such 
a large heart, Kitty, that he found some place there, perhaps ; but 
it is too good a heart to be shared by the mean and base. You 
must think no more of him — he is not worthy of your regard.” 

“ I can’t help it,” said Kitty; “ I am silly, just as he said.” 

“ No, you are not,” said Gertrude, encouragingly ; “ and you 
must prove it to him.” 

“Hjw ? ” 

“ Let him see that, with all her softness, Kitty Ray is strong 
and brave ; that she has ceased to believe his flattery, and values 
his professions at just what they are wortk,” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


m 

Will you help me, Gertrude ? You are my best friend ; you 
took my part, and told him how wicked he had been to me. May 
I come to you for comfort when I can’t make believe happy any 
longer to him, and my aunt, and Isabel ? ” 

Gertrude’s fervent embrace was assurance enough of her coop 
eration and sympathy. 

“You will be as bright and happy as ever in a few weeks, 
said she ; “ you will soor cease to care for a person whom you 
no longer respect.” 

Kitty disclaimed the possibility of ever being happy again ; but 
Gertrude, though herself a novice in the ways of the human 
heart, was much more sanguine and hopeful. She saw that 
Kitty’s violent outburst of sobs and tears was like a child’s im- 
petuous grief, and suspected that the deepest recesses of her 
nature were safe, and unendangered by the storm. 

She felt a deep compassion for her, however, and many fears 
lest she would be wanting in sufficient strength of mind to behave 
with dignity and womanly pride in her future intercourse with 
Mr. Bruce, and would also expose herself to the ridicule of Isabel, 
and the contempt of her aunt, by betraying in her looks and 
behavior her recent trying and mortifying experience. 

Fortunately, the first-mentioned trial was spared her, by Mr. 
Bruce’s immediately absenting himself from the house, and in 
the course of a few days leaving home for the remainder of tfcc 
summer ; and, as this circumstance involved both his own and 
Mrs. Graham’s family in doubt and wonder as to the cause of his 
sudden departure, Kitty’s outward trials consisted chiefly in the 
continued and repeated questionings from her aunt and cousin, to 
which she was incessantly exposed, as to her share in this sudden 
and unlooked-for occurrence. Had she refused him ? Had she 
quarrelled with him ? — and why ? 

Kitty denied that she had done either ; but she was not believed 
and the affair remained a strange and interesting mystery. 

Both Mrs. Graham and Isabel were aware that Kitty s refus- 
ing at the last moment to attend the wedding levee was owing 

her having accidentally learned, just before the carriage drove 
to the law, that Mr. Bruce was uc* tc be of the party • md. as 


BOO 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


they wrung from her the confession that he had passed a part ol 
the evening at the house, they came to the very natural conclu- 
sion that some misunderstanding had arisen between the supposed 
lovers. 

Isabel was too well acquainted with Kitty’s sentiments to 
believe she had voluntarily relinquished an admirer who had evi- 
dently been highly prized ; and she also saw that the sensitive girl 
winced under every allusion to the deserter. One would have 
thought, then, that common affection and delicacy would have 
taught her to forbear any reference to the painful subject. But 
this was not the case. She made Mr. Bruce and his strange dis- 
appearance her almost constant topic ; and, on occasion of the 
slightest difference or disagreement arising between herself and 
Kitty, she silen. ed and distressed the latter by some pointed and 
cutting sarcasm relative to her late love affair. Kitty would 
then seek refuge with Gertrude, relate her trials, and claim her 
sympathy ; and she not only found in her a friendly listener to her 
woes, but invariably acquired in her society greater strength and 
cheerfulness than she could elsewhere rally to her aid, so that she 
became gradually dependent upon her for the only peace she 
enjoyed ; and Gertrude, who felt a sincere interest in tne girl 
who had been on her account subjected to such cruel deception , 
and whose drooping spirits and pensive countenance spoke touch- 
ingly of her inner sorrow, spared no pains to enliven her sadness, 
divert her thoughts, and win her to those occupations and amuse- 
ments in which she herself had often found a relief from preying 
care and vexation. 

A large proportion of her time was necessarily devoted to her 
dearest and best friend, Emily ; but there was nothing exclusive 
in Emily’s nature ; when not suffering from those bodily afflic- 
tions to which she was subject, she was ever ready to extend a 
cordial welcome to ail visitors who could find pleasure or benefit 
from her society ; and even the wild and thoughtless Fanny never 
felt herself an intruder in Emily’s premises, so sweet was the 
smile with which she was greeted, so forbearing the indulgence 
which was awarded to her waywardness. It can hardly be sup 
fosed, then, that Kitty would be excluded from her hospitality 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


30 ) 

especially after Emily, with a truly wonderful perception, became 
aware that she was less gaj and happy than formerly, and had 
therefore an additional claim upon her kindness. 

Many a time, when Isabel had been tantalizing and wounding 
Kitty beyond what her patience could endure, and Gertrude had 
been vainly sought elsewhere, a little figure would present itself 
at the half-open door of Miss Graham’s room, and was sure to 
hear the sweetest of voices saying from within, “ I hear you, 
Kitty ; come m, my dear ; we shall be glad of your pleasant com- 
pany ; and once there, seated by the side of Gertrude, learning 
from her some little art in needle-work, listening to an agreeable 
book, or Emily’s more agreeable conversation, Kitty passed hours 
which were never forgotten, so peaceful were they, so serene, so 
totally unlike any she had ever spent before. Nor did they fail 
to leave a lasting impression upon her, for the benefit of her mind 
and heart. 

None could live in familiar intercourse with Emily, listen to 
her words, observe the radiance of her heavenly smile, and breathe 
in the pure atmosphere that environed her very being, and not 
carry away with them the love of virtue and holiness, if not some- 
thing of their essence . She was so unselfish, so patient, notwith- 
standing her privations, that Kitty would have been ashamed to 
repine in her presence ; and there was a contagious cheerfulness 
ever pervading her apartment, which, in spite of Kitty’s recent 
cause of unhappiness, often led her to forget herself, and break 
into her natural tone of buoyancy and glee. As week after week 
passed away, and her sufferings and regrets, which at first were so 
vehement and severe, began to wear off as rapidly as such hurricane 
sorrows are apt to do, and the process of cure went on silently and 
unconsciously, another work at the same time progressed, to her 
equally salutary and important. In her constant intercourse with 
the pure heart and superior mind of Emily, and her still more 
familiar intimacy with one who had sat at her feet and learned of 
her, Kitty imbibed an elevation of thought and a worthiness of 
aim quite foreign to her quondam character. 

The foolish child, whose heart was ensnared by the flatteries of 
Mr. Bruce learned — partly through the example and precepts 
26 


302 


THE L4MPLIGHTE&. 


of her new counsellors and friends, and partly through her ow« 
bitter experience — the vanity and emptiness of the food thue 
administered to her mind ; and resolving, for the first time ip 
her life, to cultivate and cherish her immortal powers, she now 
developed the first germs of her better nature ; which, expand- 
ing in later years, and through other influences, transformed th© 
gay fluttering, vain child of fashion, into the useful, estimable 
and lovely woman 0 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


Small slights, neglect, unmixed perhaps with aai-2, 

Make up in number what they want in weight. 

These, and a thousand griefs minute as these. 

Corrode our comfort and destroy our ease. 

^ nnah More. 

Little did Gertrude imagine, while she was striving nusi; dis* 
interestedly to promote the welfare and happiness of Kitty who 
nad thrown herself upon her love and care, the jealousy and ill- 
will she was exciting in others. Isabel, who had never liked one 
whose whole tone of action and life was a continual reproach t) 
her own vanity and selfishness, and who saw in her the additional 
crime of being the favored friend of a youth of whose interest- 
ing boyhood she herself retained a sentimental recollection, was 
ready and eager to seize the earliest opportunity of rendering her 
odious in the eyes of Mrs. Graham. She was not slow to observe 
the remarkable degree of confidence that seemed to exist between 
Kitty and Gertrude ; she remembered that her cousin had for- 
saken her own room for that of the latter the very night after 
her probable quarrel and parting with Bruce ; and, her resentment 
and anger excited still further by the growing friendship which 
her own coldness and unkindness to Kitty served only to 
strengthen and confirm, she hastened to communicate to Mrs. 
Graham her suspicion that Gertrude had, for purposes of her 
own, made a difficulty between Bruce and Kitty, fostered and 
widened the breach, and succeeded at last in breaking off the 
match. 

Mrs. Graham readily adopted Belle’s opinion. “ Kitty,” said 
she, “ is weak-minded, and evidently very much under Miss Flint’s 
influence. I should n’t be surprised if you were right, Belle ! *' 

Thus leagued together, they endeavored to surprise or entrap 


804 


THE LAMPLIGHT in,. 


Kitty into a confession of the means which had been laken bj 
Gertrude to drive away her lover, and out-wit herself. But Kitty 
while she indignantly denied Gertrude’s having thus injured her, 
persisted obstinately in refusing to reveal the occurrences of the 
eventful evening of the wedding levee. It was the first secret 
Kitty ever did keep ; but her woman’s pride was involved in the 
affair, and she preserved it with a care which both honor and 
wisdom prompted. 

Mrs. Graham and Belle were now truly angry, and many were 
the private discussions held by them on the subject, many the vain 
conjectures which they conjured up ; and as, day after day, they 
became more and more incensed against Gertrude, so they grad- 
ually began to manifest it in their demeanor. 

Gertrude soon perceived the incivility to which she was con- 
stantly subjected ; for, though in a great degree independent of 
their friendship, she could not live under the same roof without 
'neir having frequent opportunities to wound her by their rude- 
ness, which soon became marked, and would have been unendurable 
to one whose disposition wa^ less thoroughly schooled than Ger- 
trude’s. 

With, wonderful patience, however, did she preserve her equa- 
nimity. She had never looked for kindness and attention from 
Mrs. Graham and Isabel. She had seen from the first that 
between herself and them there could be little sympathy, and 
now that they manifested open dislike she struggled hard to main- 
tain, on her part, not only self-command and composure, but a 
constant spirit qf charity. It was well that she did not yield to 
this comparatively light trial of her forbearance, for a new. unex- 
pected, and far more intense provocation was in store for her. 
Her malicious persecutors, incensed and irritated by an unlooked- 
for calmness and patience, which gave them no advantage in their 
one-sided warfare, now made their attack in another quarter ; and 
Emily, the sweet, lovely, unoffending Emily, became the object 
against whom they aimed many of their shafts of unkindness and 
ill-will. 

Gertrude could bear injury, injustice, and even hard and cruel 
language, when exercised towards hersef only; but her blood 


THE lamplighter. 


80 & 

boiled in her veins when she began to perceive that her cherished 
Emily was becoming the victim of mean and petty neglect and ill 
usage. To address the gentle Emily in other words than those 
of courtesy was next to impossible ; it was equally hard to find 
fault with the actions of one whose life was so good and beautiful 
and the somewhat isolated position which she occupied on account 
of her blindness seemed to render her secure from interference ; 
but Mrs. Graham was coarse and blunt, Isabel selfish and unfeel- 
ing, and long before the blind girl was herself aware of any unkind 
intention on their part, Gertrude’s spirit had chafed and rebelled 
at the sight and knowledge of many a word and act, well 
calculated, if perceived, to annoy and distress a sensitive and deli- 
cate spirit. Many a stroke was warded off by Gertrude ; many 
a neglect atoned for, before it could be felt ; many a nearly 
defeated plan, which Emily was known to have had at heart, 
carried through and accomplished by Gertrude’s perseverance and 
energy ; and for some weeks Emily was kept ignorant of the fact 
that many a little office formerly performed for her by a servant 
was now fulfilled by Gertrude, who would not let her know that 
Bridget had received from her mistress orders which were quite 
inconsistent with her usual attendance upon Miss Graham’s wants. 

Mr. Graham was, at this time, absent from home ; some diffi- 
culty and anxiety in business matters having called him to New 
York, at a season when he usually enjoyed his leisure, free from 
all such cares. His presence would have been a great restraint 
upon his wife, who was well aware^ of his devoted affection for his 
daughter, and his wish that her comfort and ease should always 
be considered of first-rate importance. Indeed, his love and 
thoughtfulness for Emily, and the enthusiastic devotion manifested 
towards her by every member of the household, had early ren- 
dered her an object of jealousy to Mrs. Graham, who was therefore 
very willing to find ground of offence against her ; and, in her case 
as in Isabel’s, Kitty’s desertion to what her aunt and cousin con 
sidered the unfriendly party was only a secondary cause of 
distrust and dislike. 

The misunderstanding with Mr. Bruce, and theii unworthy 
suspicions of its having been fostered by Gertrude, aided and 
fc 2fi* 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


sot) 

abetted by Emily, furnished, however, an ostensible motive tor 
the indulgence of their animosity, and one of which they resolved 
to avail themselves to the utmost. 

Shortly before Mr. Graham’s return home, Mrs. Graham and 
Isabel were sitting together, endeavoring to while away the tedious 
hours of a sultry August afternoon by indulging themselves in an 
unlimited abuse of the rest of the household, when a letter was 
brought to Mrs. Graham, which proved to be from her husband. 
After glancing over its contents, she remarked, with an air of 
satisfaction, “ Here is good news for us, Isabel, and a prospect cf 
some pleasure in the world ; ” and she read aloud the following 
passage : “ The troublesome affair which called me here is nearly 
settled, and the result is exceedingly favorable to my wishes ana 
plans. I now see nothing to prevent our starting for Europe the 
latter part of next month, and the girls must make their arrange- 
ments accordingly. Tell Emily to spare nothing towards a full 
and complete equipment for herself and Gertrude.” 

“ He speaks of Gertrude,” said Isabel, sneeringly, “ as if she 
were one of the family. I ’m sure I don’t see any very great 
prospect of pleasure in travelling ail through Europe with a blind 
woman and her disagreeable appendages ; I can’t think what Mr. 
Graham wants to take them for.” 

“ I wish he would leave them at home,” said Mrs. Graham ; 
“ it would be a good punishment for Gertrude. But, mercy ! he 
would as soon think of going without his right hand as without 
Emily.” 

“ I hope, if ever I am married,” exclaimed Isabel, “ it won’t be 
to a man that ’s got a blind daughter ! — Such a dreadful good 
person, too, whom everybody has got to worship, and admire, and 
wait upon ! ” 

“ 1 don’t have to wait upon her,” said Mrs. Graham; “that’s 
Gertrude’s business — it ’s what she ’s going for.” 

“ That ’s the worst of it ; blind girl has to have a waiting-inaid, 
and waiting-maid is a great lady, who does n’t mind cheating your 
nieces out of their lovers, and even robbing them of each other ’a 
affection.* 

“Well, what can I do, Belle? I’m sure I don’t want Ger- 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


307 


truda’s company any more than you do ; but I don’t see how 1 can 
get rid of her.” 

“ I should think you ’d tell Mr. Graham some of the harm she ’s 
done already. If you have any influence over him, you might 
prevent her going.” 

“ It would be no more than she deserves,” said Mrs. Graham, 
thoughtfully, “ and I am not sure but I shall give him a hint of 
her behavior ; he ’ll be surprised enough when he hears of Bruce’s 
sudden flight. I know he thought it would be a match between 
him and Kitty.” 

At this point in the conversation, Isabel was summoned to see 
visitors, and left her aunt in a mood pregnant with consequences. 

As Isabel descended the front staircase, to meet with smiles and 
compliments the guests whom in her heart she wished a thou- 
sand miles away on this intensely hot afternoon, Gertrude came 
up by the back way from the kitchen, and passed along a passage 
leading to her own room. She carried, over one arm, a dress of 
delicate white muslin, and a number of embroidered collars, sleeves 
and ruffles, together with other articles evidently fresh from the 
ironing-board. Her face was flushed and heated; she looked 
tired, and, as she reached her room, and carefully deposited her 
ourden upon the bed, she drew a long breath, as if much fatigued, 
seated herself by a window, brushed the hair back from her face, 
and threw open a blind, to feel, if possible, a breath of cool 
air. Just at this moment, Mrs. Prime put her head in at the 
half-open door, and, seeing Gertrude alone, entered the room, but 
stood fixed with astonishment on observing the evidences of her 
recent laborious employment ; then, glancing directly opposite at 
the fruits of her diligence, she burst forth, indignantly, “ My sakes 
alive ! Miss Gertrude, I do believe you ’ve been doin’ up them 
muslins yDurself, after all ! ” 

Gertrude smiled, but did not reply. 

“ Now, if that an’t too bad ! ” said the friendly and kind- 
hearted woman, “ to think you should ha’ been at work down in 
that ’ere hot kitchen, and all the rest on us takin’ a spell o’ rest in 
the heat of the day ! I ’ll warrant, if Miss Emily knew it, she ’d 
never put on that white gown in this ’ere world I ” 


308 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


“ It hardly looks fit for her to wear," said Gertrude. " L ’in 
not much used to ironing, and have had a great deal of trouble 
with it ; one side got dry before I could smooth out the other.” 

“ It looks elegant, Miss Gertrude ; but what should you be 
doin’ Bridget s work for, I want to know ? ” 

“ Bridget always has enough to do,” said Gertrude, evading a 
direct answer, “ and it ’s very well for me to have some practice , 
knowledge never comes amiss, you know, Mrs. Prime.” 

“ ’T an’t no kind of an afternoon for ’speriments o’ that sort ; and 
you would n’t ha’ done it, I ’ll venture to say, if you had n't been 
afeard Miss Emily would want her things, and find out they wan’t 
done. Times is changed in this house, when Mr. Graham’s own 
daughter, that was once to the head of everything, has to have her 
clothes laid by to make room for other folks. Bridget ought to 
know better than to mind these upstarters, when they tell her, as 
I heard Miss Graham yesterday, to let alone that heap o’ muslins, 
&nd attend to something that was o’ , more consequence. Our 
Katy would ha’ known better : but Bridget ’s a new comer, like all 
the rest. Thinks I to myself then, what would Miss Gertrude 
say, if she suspected as how Miss Emily was bein’ neglected 
But I ’ll tell Miss Emily, as sure as my name ’s Primer, just how 
things go ; — you shan’t get so red in the face with ironing agin 
Miss Gertrude. If the kind o’ frocks she likes to wear can’t by 
done up at home, — and yourn too, what ’s more, — the washin' ought 
to be put out. There ’s money enough, and some of it ought to be 
spent for the use o’ the ladies as is ladies ! I wish to heart that 
Isabella could have to start round a little lively ; ’t would do her 
good ; but, Lor’, Miss Gertrude, it goes right to my heart to see all 
the vexatious things as is happenin’ now-a-days ! I ’ll go right to 
Miss Emily, this minute, and blow my blast ! ” 

“ No, you won’t, Mrs. Prime,” said Gertrude, persuasive] /, 
“ when I ask you not to. You forget how unhappy it would make 
her if she knew that Mrs. Graham was so wanting in considera- 
tion. I would rather iron dresses every day, or do anything else 
for our dear Miss Emily, than to let her suspect even that any- 
body could willingly be unkind to her.” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


309 


Mrs. Prime hesitated. “ Miss Gertrude,” said she, “ I thought 
i .oved our dear young lady as well as anybody could, but I be- 
lieve you love her better still, to be so thoughtful and wise-like 
all for her sake ; and I would n’t say nothin’ about it, only I think 
a sight o’ you , too ; you ’ve been here ever since you was a little 
gal, and we all set lots by you, and I can’t see them folks ride 
over your head, as I know they mean to.” 

“ I know you love me, Mrs. Prime, and Emily too; so, for the 
sake of us both, you mustn’t say a word to anybody about the 
change in the family arrangements. We ’ll all do what we can to 
keep Emily from pain, and, as to the rest, we won’t care for our- 
selves ; if they don’t pet and indulge me as much as I ’ve been 
accustomed to, the easiest way is not to notice it ; and you 
must n’t put on your spectacles to see trouble.” 

“ Lord bless yer heart, Miss Gertrude, them folks is lucky to 
have you to deal with ; it is n’t everybody as would put up with 
’em. They don’t come much in my way, thank fortin’ ! I let 
Miss Graham see, right off, that I would n’t put up with inter- 
ference; cooks is privileged to set up for their rights, and I scared 
her out o’ my premises pretty quick, I tell yer! It ’s mighty hard 
for me to s*ee our own ladies imposed upon ; but since you say 
; mum,’ Miss Gertrude, I ’ll try and hold my tongue as long as I 
can. It ’s a shame though, I do declare ! ” — and Mrs. Prime 
walked off, muttering to herself. 

An hour after, Gertrude was at the glass, braiding up the 
bands of her long hair, when Mrs. Ellis, after a slight knock at 
the door, entered. 

“ Well, Gertrude,” said she “ I did n’t think it would come to 
this ! ” 

“ Why, what is the matter ? ” inquired Gertrude, anxiously. 

“ It seems we are going to be turned out of our rooms ! ” 

“ Who ? ” 

“ You, and I next, for aught I know.” 

Gertrude colored, but did not speak, and Mrs. Ellis went on to 
relate that she had just received orders to fit up Gertrude’s room 
for some visitors who were expected the next day. She was 
astonished to hear that Gertrude had not been consulted on the 


810 


TIIK LAMPLIGHTER. 


subject. Mrs. jrraham had spoken so carelessly of htr remova* 
and seemed to think it so mutually agreeable for Emily co share 
her apartment with her young friend, that Mrs. Ellis concluded 
the matter had been prearranged. 

Deeply wounded and vexed, both on her own and Emily’s ac- 
count, Gertrude stood for a moment silent and irresolute. She 
then asked if Mrs. Ellis had spoken to Emily on the subject. She 
had not. Gertrude begged her to say nothing about it. 

l< I cannot bear,” said she, “ to let her know that the little 
sanctum she fitted up so carefully has been unceremoniously 
taken from me. I sleep in her room more than half the time, as 
you know ; but she always likes to have me call this chamber 
mine, that I may be sure of a place where I can read and study 
by myself. If you will let me remove my bureau into your 
room, Mrs. Ellis, and sleep on a couch there occasionally, we need 
not say anything about it to Emily.” 

Mrs. Ellis assented. She had grown strangely humble and com- 
pliant within a few months, and Gertrude had completely won 
her good-will ; first by forbearance, and latterly by the frequent 
favors and assistance she had found it in her power to render the 
overburdened housekeeper. So she made no objection to receive 
Her into her room as an inmate, and even offered to assist in the 
removal of her wardrobe, work-table and books. 

But, though yielding and considerate towards Gertrude, whom, 
with Emily and Mrs. Prime, she now considered members of the 
oppressed and injured party to which she herself belonged, no 
words could express her indignation with regard to the late be- 
havior of Mrs. Graham and Isabel. “ It is all of a piece,” said 
she, “ with the rest of their conduct ! Sometimes I almost feel 
thankful that Emily is blind, it would grieve her so to see the 
goings on. I should have liked to box Isabella’s ears for taking 
year seat at the table so impudently as she did yesterday, and 
then neglecting to help Emily to anything at all ; and there sat dear 
Emily, angel as she is aU unconscious of her shameful behavior, 
and asking her for butter as sweetly as if it were by mere acci- 
dent that you had been driven from the table, and she left to 
provide foi herself And all those strangers there, too ! I saw it 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


311 

art Frum the china-closet! And then Emily’s dress us and misling! 
— there they laid in the press-drawer, till 1 thought they would 
mildew. I ’m glad to see Bridget has been a lowed to do them at 
last, tor I began to think Emily would one of these warm days 
be without a clean gown in the world. But, there, it ’s no use 
talking about it ; all I wish is, that they ’d all go off to Europe 
and leave us here to ourselves. You don’t want to go, do you 
Gertrude ? ” 

' Yes, if Emily goes.” 

“Well, you’re better than I am ; I couldn’t make such a 
martyr of myself, even for her sake.” 

It is needless to detail the many petty annoyances to which 
Gertrude was daily subjected ; especially after the arrival of the 
expected visitors, a gay and thoughtless party of fashionables, who 
were taught to look upon her as an unwarrantable intruder, and 
upon Emily as a troublesome incumbrance. Nor, with all the 
pains taken to prevent it, could Emily be long kept in ignorance 
of the light estimation in which both herself and Gertrude were 
regarded. Kitty, incensed at the incivility of her aunt and Isa- 
bel, and indifferent towards the visitors, to whose folly and levity 
of character her eyes were now partially opened, hesitated not to 
express both to Emily and Gertrude her sense of the injuries 
they sustained, and her own desire to act in their defence. But 
Kitty was no formidable antagonist to Mrs. Graham and Belle, 
for, her spirits greatly subdued, and her fears constantly excited 
by her cousin’s sarcastic looks and speeches, she had become a 
sad coward, and no longer dared, as she would once have done, to 
thwart their schemes,, and stand between her friends and the 
indignities to which they were exposed. 

But Mrs. Graham, thoughtless woman, went too far, and be- 
came at last entangled in difficulties of her own weaving. Her 
husband returned, and it now became necessary to set bounds to 
her own insolence, and, what was far more difficult, to that of 
Isabel. Mrs. Graham was a woman of tact ; she knew just how 
far her nusband’s forbearance would extend, — just the point to 
which his perceptions might be blinded ; and had also sufficient 
^elf-control to ch^cfc herself in any course which would be likely 


812 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


to prove obnoxious to his imperious will. In his absence, how- 
ever, she acted without restraint, permitted Belle to fill the house 
with her lively young acquaintances, and winked at the many 
open and flagrant violations of the law of politeness, manifested 
by the young people towards the daughter of their absent host, 
and her youthful friend and attendant. Now, however, a check 
must be put to all indecorous proceedings ; and, unfortunately for 
the execution of the wife’s wise precautions, the head of the 
family returned unexpectedly, and under circumstances which 
forestalled any preparation or warning. He arrived just at dusk, 
having come from town in an omnibus, which was quite contrary 
to his usual custom. 

It was a cool evening ; the windows and doors of the house 
were closed, and the parlor was so brilliantly lighted that he at 
once suspected the truth that a large company was being enter- 
tained there. He felt vexed, for it was Saturday night, and, in 
accordance with old New England customs, Mr. Graham loved 
to see his household quiet on that evening. He was, moreover, 
suffering from a violent headache, and, avoiding the parlor, he 
passed on to the library, and then to the dining-room ; both were 
chilly and deserted. He then made his way up stairs, walked 
through several rooms, glanced indignantly at their disordered 
and slovenly appearance, — for he was excessively neat, — and 
finally gained Emily’s chamber. He opened the door noiselessly, 
and looked in. 

A bright wood-fire burned upon the hearth ; a couch was drawn 
up beside it, on which Emily was sitting ; and Gertrude’s little 
rocking-chair occupied the opposite corner. The fire-light re- 
flected upon the white curtains, the fragrant perfume which pro- 
ceeded from a basket of flowers upon the table, the perfect neat- 
ness and order of the apartment, the placid, peaceful face of 
Emily, and the radiant expression of Gertrude’s countenance, as 
she looked up and saw the father and protector of her blind 
friend looking pleasantly in upon them, proved such a charming 
contrast to the scenes presented in other parts of the house, that 
the old gentleman, warmed to more than usual satisfaction with 
both of the inmates, greeted his surprised daughter with a hearty 


THE LAMPLIGHTER, 


313 


paginal embrace, and* bestowing upon Gertrude an equally afieo 
tionate greeting, exclaimed, as he took the arm-chair which the 
latter wht eled in front of the fire for his accommodation, “ Now r , 
girls, this looks pleasant and homelike ! What in the world is 
going on down stairs ? .What is everything up in arms about ? ” 
Emily explained that there was company staying in the house. 

“ Ugh ! company ! ” grunted Mr. Graham, in a dissatisfied tone. 
“ I should think so ! Been emptying rag-bags about the chambers, 
I should sa v, from the looks ! ” 

Gertrude asked if he had been to tea. 

He had not, and should be thankful for some ; — he was tired. 
So she went down stairs to see about it. 

k< Don’t tell anybody that I ’ve got home, Gerty,” called he, as 
she left the room ; “ I want to be left in peace to-night, at least ” 
While Gertrude was gone, Mr. Graham questioned Emily as to 
her preparations for the European tour ; to his surprise, he learned 
that she had never received his message communicated in the 
letter to Mrs. Graham, and knew nothing of his plans. Equally 
astonished and angry, he nevertheless restrained his temper for 
the present ; — he did not like to acknowledge to himself, far less 
to his daughter, that his commands had been disregarded by his 
wife. It put him upon thinking, however. 

After he had enjoyed a comfortable repast, at which Gertrude 
presided, they both returned to Emily’s room ; and now Mr. Gra- 
ham’s first inquiry was for the Evening Transcript . 

“ I will go for it,” said Gertrude, rising. 

“ Ring ! ” said Mr. Graham, imperatively. He nad observed 
at the tea-table that Gertrude’s ring was disregarded, and wished 
to know the cause of so strange a piece of neglect. Gertrude rang 
several times, but obtained no answer to the bell. At last she 
heard Bridget’s step in the entry, and, opening the 3 oor, said to 
her, “ Bridget, won’t you find the Transcript, and bring it to Miss 
Emily’s room.” Bridget soon returned, with the announcement 
that Miss Isabella was reading it, and declined to give it up. 

A storm gathered on Mr. Graham’s brow. “ Such a message tc 
*ny daughter ! ” he exclaimed. “ Gertrude, g( vourself, and tel] 
27 


814 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


the impertinent girl that I want the paper ! Whsa wrl of ta* 
vior is this ? ” muUered h& 

Gertrude entered the parlor with great composure, and, amid 
the stares and wonder of the company, spoke in a low tone to 
Belle, who immediately yielded up the paper, blushing and look- 
ing much confused as she did so. Belle was afraid of Mr. Gra- 
ham ; and, on her informing her aunt of his return, it was that 
lady’s turn, also, to look disconcerted. She had fully calculated 
upon seeing her husband before he had access to Emily ; she 
knew the importance of giving the desired bias to a man of his 
strong prejudices. 

But it was too late now. She would not go to seek him ; she 
must take her chance, and trust to fortune to befriend her. She 
used all her tact, however, to disperse her friends at an early 
hour, and then found Mr. Graham smoking in the dining-room. 

He was in an unpleasant mood (as she told her niece afterwards 
cross as a bear) ; but she contrived to conciliate rather than irritate 
him, avoided all discordant subjects, and was able the next morn- 
ing to introduce to her friends an apparently affable and obliging 
host. 

This serenity was disturbed, however, long before the Sabbath 
drew to a close. As he walked up the church-aisle, before morn- 
ing service, with Emily, according to invariable custom, leaning 
upon his arm, his brow darkened at seeing Isabel complacently 
seated in that corner of the old-fashioned square pew which all the 
family were well aware had for years been sacred to his blind 
daughter. Mrs. Graham, who accompanied them, winked at her 
niece ; but Isabel was mentally rather obtuse, and was, conse- 
quently, subjected to the mortification of having Mr. Graham 
leliberately take her hand and remove her from the seat, in which 
he immediately placed Emily, while the displaced occupant, who 
had been so mean as for the last three Sundays to purposely de- 
prive Miss Graham of this old established right, was compelled to 
sit during the service in the only vacant place, beside Mr. Gra- 
ham, with her back to the pulpit. And very angry was she at 
observing the smiles visible upon many counte ranees in tie neigh* 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


315 


boring pern , and especially chagrined when I anny Bruce, who 
was close to her in the next pew, giggled outright. 

Emily would have been grieved if she had been in the least 
aware of the triumph she had unconsciously achieved. But her 
heart and thoughts were turned upward, and, as she had felt no 
pang of provocation at Isabel’s past encroachment, so had she no 
consciousness of present satisfaction, except as the force of habit 
made her feel more at ease in her old seat. 

Mr. Graham had not been at home a week before he understood 
plainly the existing state of feeling in the mind of his wife and 
Isabel, and the manner in which it was likely to act upon the 
happiness of the household. He saw that Emily was superior to 
complaint ; he knew that she had never in her life complained ; 
he observed, too, Gertrude’s devotion to his much-loved child, and 
it stamped her in his mind as one who had a claim to his regard 
which should never be disputed. It is not, then, to be wondered 
at, that when, with much art and many plausible words, Mrs. 
Graham made her intended insinuations against his youthful 
protegee, Mr. Graham treated them with indifference and contempt, 

He had known Gertrude from a child. She was high-spirited, 
— he had sometimes thought her wilful, — but never mean or false. 
It was no use to tell him all that nonsense ; — he was glad, for his 
part, that it was all off between Kitty and Bruce ; for Ben was 
an idle fellow, and would never make a good husband ; and, as t<r 
Kitty, he thought her much improved of late, and if it were 
owing to Gertrude’s influence, the more they saw of each other 
the better. 

Mrs. Graham was in despair. “ It is all settled,” said she to 
Isabel. “ It is no use to contest the point ; Mr. Graham is firm 
as a rock, and as sure as we go to Europe, Emily and Gertrude 
will go too” 

She was almost startled, therefore, by what she considered an 
excess of good luck, when informed, a few days afterwards, that 
the couple she had so dreaded to have of the party were in reality 
to be left behind, and that, too, at Miss Graham’s special request. 
Emily’s scruples with regard to mentioning to her father the little 
prospect of pleasure the tour was likely to afford her all vanished 


810 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


* 

wher she found that Gertrude, whose interest she over had a* 
heart, would be likely to prove a still greatei sufferer from the 
society t:> which she would be subjected. 

Blind as she was, Emily understood and perceived almost every- 
thing that was passing around her. Quick of perception, and 
with a hearing rendered doubly intense by her want of sight, the 
events of the summer were, perhaps, more familiar to her than to 
any other member of the family. She more than suspected the 
exact state of matters betwixt Mr. Bruce and Gertrude, though 
the latter had never spoken to her on the subject. She imagined 
the manner in which Kitty was involved in the affair (no very 
difficult thing to be conceived by one who enjoyed the confidences 
which the simple-hearted girl unconsciously, but continually, made 
during her late intercourse with her). 

As Mrs. Graham’s and Isabel’s abuse of power became more 
open and decided, Mrs. Ellis and Mrs. Prime both considered the 
embargo upon free speech in Miss Graham’s presence wholly 
removed ; and any pain which the knowledge of their neglect 
might have caused her was more than compensated to Emily by 
the proofs it had called forth of devoted attachment and willing 
service on the part of her adopted child, as she loved to consider 
Gertrude. 

Calmly, and without hesitation, as without excitement, did she 
resolve to ado£t a course which should at once free Gertrude from 
her self-sacrificing service. That she encountered much opposition 
from her father may well be imagined ; but he knew too well the 
impossibility of any pleasure to be derived to herself from a tour 
in which mental pain was added to outward deprivation, to persist 
in urging her to accompany the party ; and, concluding at last 
that it was, after all, the only way to reconcile opposing interests, 
and that Emily’s plan was, perhaps, the best that could be adopted 
under the circumstances, decided to resign himself to the long 
separation from his daughter, and permit her to be happy in her 
own way. He had seen, during the previous winter at the south, 
how entirely Emily’s infirmity unfitted her for travelling, espec- 
ially when deprived of Gertrude’s attendant eyes ; he now realized 
b >w totally contrary to her tastes and habits were the tastes and 


IBE LAMPLIGHTER. 


317 


Habits of bis new wife and her nieces ; and, unwilling to be com 
vinced oi the folly of his sudden choice, and the probable chance 
of unhappiness arising from it, he appreciated the wisdom of 
Emily’s proposal, and felt a sense of relief in the adoption of » 
course which would satisfy all parties. 

27 ^ 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


A course of days, composing happy months. 

Wordsworth. 

Mrs. Warren’s pleasant boarding-house was the place chc&en 
by Emily for her own and Gertrude’s winter home ; and one 
month from the time of Mr. Graham’s return from New York his 
country-house was closed, he, with his wife, Isabel and Kitty, 
were on their way to Havre ; Mrs. Ellis gone to enjoy a little rest 
from care with some cousins at the eastward ; and Mrs. Prime 
established as cook in Mrs. Warren’s household, where all the 
morning she grumbled at the increase of duty she was here called 
upon to perform, and all the evening blessed her stars that she 
was still under the same roof with her dear young ladies. 

Although ample arrangements were made by Mr. Graham, and 
all-sufficient means provided for the support of both Emily and 
Gertrude, the latter was anxious to be once more usefully em- 
ployed, and, therefore, resumed a portion of her school duties at 
Mr. W.’s. Much as Emily loved Gertrude’s constant presence, 
she gladly resigned her for a few hours every day, rejoiced in 
the spirit which prompted her exertions, and rewarded her with 
her encouragement and praise. In the undisturbed enjoyment of 
each other’s society, and in their intercourse with a small but 
intelligent circle of friends, they passed a season of sweet tran- 
quillity. They read, walked and communed, as in times long 
past. Together they attended lectures, concerts, and galleries of 
art. As they stood before the works of a master’s hand, whether 
in the sculptured marble or the painted canvas; and Emily lis- 
tened while Gertrude, with glowing eyes and a face radiant with 
enthusiasm, described with minuteness and accuracy the subject 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


319 


of the pieces, the manner ii; which the artist had expressed in 
his wcrk the original conception of his mind, — the attitudes of 
figures, the expression of faces, the coloring of landscapes, and the 
effect produced upon her mind and heart by the thoughts which the 
work conveyed, — such was the eloquence of the one, and the sym- 
pathizing attention of the other, that, as they stood there in 
striking contrast, forgetful of all around, they were themselves a 
study, if not for the artist, for the observer of human nature, as 
manifested in novel forms and free from affectation and worldli- 
ness. 

Then, too, as, in their daily walks, or gazing upon the glories 
of a brilliant winter’s night, Gertrude, enraptured at the work 
of the great Master of the universe, poured out without reserve 
hei soul’s deep and earnest admiration, dilated upon the gorgeous- 
ness of a clear sunset, or in the sweet hour of twilight sat 
watching the coming on of beautiful night, and lighting of Heaven’s 
lamps, then would Emily, from the secret fountains of her largely- 
illumined nature, speak out such truths of the inner life as made 
it seem that she alone were blessed with the true light, and all 
the seeing world sat in comparative darkness. 

It was a blissful and an improving winter which they thus 
passed together. They lived not for themselves alone ; the poor 
blessed them, the sorrowful came to them for sympathy, and the 
affection which they both inspired in the family circle was bound- 
less. Gertrude often recurred to it, in her after life, as the tinu, 
when she and Emily lived in a beautiful world of their own. 
Spring came, and passed, and still they lingered there, loth to 
leave a place where they had been so happy ; and nothing at last 
drove them from the city, but a sudden failure in Emily’s health 
and Dr. Jeremy’s peremptory command that they should at once 
seek the country air, as the best restorative. 

Added to her anxiety about Emily ; Gertrude began to feel 
much troubled at Willie Sullivan’s long silence; no w r ord from 
him for two or three months. Willie could not have forgotten or 
meant to neglect her. That was impossible. But why this 
strange suspension to their correspondence ? She Iried, however. 


820 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


not to fee disturbed about it, and gave all her sare to Emily who 
now began indeed to require it. 

They went to the sea-side for a few weeks ; but the clear and 
bracing atmosphere brought no strength to the blind girl’s feeble 
frame. She was obliged to give up her daily walks ; a continued 
weariness robbed her step of its elasticity, and her usually equal 
spirits were subject to an unwonted depression, while her nervous 
temperament became so susceptible that the utmost care was 
requisite to preserve her from all excitement. 

The good doctor came frequently to see his favorite patient, 
but, finding on every visit that she seemed worse instead of better, 
he at last ordered her back to the city, declaring that Mrs. J er- 
ry’s front chamber was as cool and comfortable as the little 
stived-up apartments of the crowded boarding-house at Nahant, 
and there he should insist upon both her and Gertrude’s taking up 
their quarters, at least for a week or two ; at the end of which 
time, if Emily had not found her health, he hoped to have leisure 
to start off with them in search of it. 

Emily thought she was doing very well where she was ; was 
afraid she should be troublesome to Mrs. Jeremy. 

“ Don’t talk about trouble, Emily. You ought to know Mrs 
Jerry and me better, by this time. Come up to-morrow ; I ’ 7 
meet you at the cars ! Good-by ! ” and he took his hat and was 
off. 

Gertrude followed him. “ I see, doctor, you think Emily is not 
so well.” 

“ No ; how should she be ? What with the sea roaring on one 
side, and Mrs. Fellows’ babies on the other, it ’s enough to wear 
away her strength. I won’t have it so ! This is n’t the place for 
her, and do you bring her up to my house to-morrow.” 

“ The babies don’t usually cry as much as they have to-day,’ 
said Gertrude, smiling; “ and as to the ocean, Emily loves dearly 
to bear the waves rolling in. She sits and listens to them by the 
hour together.” 

“ Knew she did ! ” said the doctor. “ Shan’t do it ; bad hi 
her ; it makes her sad, without her knowing why. Bring her up 
to Boston, as I tell you.” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


32 ] 


it wa» full three weeks after the arrival of his visitors before 
tie popular physieian could steal away from his patients to enjoy 
a few weeks recreation in travelling. For his ow.i sake he would 
hardly have thought of attempting so unusual a thing as a jour- 
ney ; and his wife, too, loved home so much better than any other 
place, that she was loth to start for parts unknown ; but both 
were willing, and even anxious, to sacrifice their long-indulged 
habits for what they considered the advantage of their young 
friends. 

Emily was decidedly better; so much so as to view with pleasure 
the prospect of visiting West Point, Catskill and Saratoga, even 
on her own account ; and when she reflected upon the probable 
enjoyment the trip would afford Gertrude, she felt herself en- 
dowed with new strength for the undertaking. Gertrude needed 
change of scene and diversion of mind almost as much as Emily. 
The excessive heat of the last few weeks, and her constant at- 
tendance in the invalid’s room, had paled the roses in her cheeks, 
while care and anxiety had weighed upon her mind. The late 
improvement in Emily, however, and the alacrity with which 
entered into the doctor’s plans, relieved Gertrude of her fears, 
and, as she moved actively about to complete the few preparations 
which were needed in her own and her friend’s wardrobe, her 
step was as light, and her voice as gladsome, as her fingers were 
busy and skilful. 

New York was their first destination ; but the heat and dust 
of the city were almost insufferable, and during the one day which 
they passed there Dr. Jeremy was the only member of the party 
who ventured out of the hotel, except on occasion of a short 
expedition which Mrs. Jeremy and Gertrude made in search of 
dress-caps, the former lady’s stock being still limited to the old 
yellow and the lilac-and-pink, neither of which, she feared, would 
be just the thing for Saratoga. 

The doctor, however, seemed quite insensible to the state of 
the weather, so much was he occupied with visits to some of his 
iEsculapian brethren, several of whom were college classmates 
whom he had not seen for years. He passed the whole day in 
the revival of old acquaintances and associations ; and, a number 


822 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


of these newly-found but warm-hearted friends haying presented 
themselves at the hotel in the evening, to be introduced to Mrs. 
J eremy and her travelling companions, their parlor was enlivened 
until a late hour by the happy and cheerful conversation of a 
group of elderly men, who, as they recalled the past and dwelt 
upon the scenes and incidents of their youthful days, seemed to 
renew their boyish spirits, so joyous was the laughter and excite- 
ment with which each anecdote of former times received as 
it fell from the lips of the spokesman, — an office which each filled 
by turns. Dr. J eremy had been a great favorite among his circle, 
and almost every narrative of college days (save those which ho 
himself detailed) bore reference to some exploit in which he had 
borne a spirited and honorable part; and the three female auditors, 
especially Gertrude, who was enthusiastic in her own appreciation 
of the doctor’s merits, listened triumphantly to this corroborative 
testimony of his worth. 

The conversation, however, was not of a character to exclude 
the ladies from participating in as well as enjoying it ; and Ger- 
trude, who always got on famously with elderly men, and whom 
the doctor loved dearly to draw out, contributed not a little to the 
mirth and good-humor of the company by her playful and amusing 
sallies, and the quickness of repartee with which she responded to 
the adroit, puzzling, and sometimes ironical questions and jokes 
of an old-bachelor physician, who, from the first, took a wonder- 
ful fancy to her. 

Emily listened with delighted interest to a conversation which 
had for her such varied charms, and shared with Gertrude tho 
admiration of the doctor’3 friends, who were all excited to the 
warmest sympathy for her misfortune ; while Mrs. Jeremy, proud, 
smiling and happy, looked so complacent as she sat ensconced in 
an arm-chair, listening to the encomiums pronounced on her hus- 
band’s boyhood, that Gertrude declared, as they separated for the 
flight, that she had almost come to the conclusion that the old 
yellow was becoming to her, and her new caps altogether super- 
fluous. 

Upon hearing that Dr. Jeremy’s party were going up the Hud- 
son the next morning, Dr Gryreworth. of Philadelphia, who had 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


m 

ri&nj years before been a student of our good doctor’s, expressed 
his sa tisfaction in the prospect of meeting them on board the 
boa;, and introducing to Gertrude his two daughters, whom he was 
about to accompany to Saratoga to meet their grandmother, 
already establ shed at Congress Hall for the summer. 

It was midnight before Gertrude could compose her mind, and 
so far quiet her imagination (which, always lively, was now keenly 
excited by the next day’s promise of pleasure) as to think of the 
necessity of fortifying herself by sleep ; and Emily was finally 
obliged to check her gayety and loquacity by positively refusing 
to join in another laugh, or listen to another word that night. 
Thus condemned to silence, she sunk at once to slumber, uncon- 
scious that Emily, usually an excellent sleeper, had, in this 
instance, acted solely for her benefit, being herself so strangely 
wakeful that morning found her unrefreshed, and uncertain 
whether she had once during the night been lulled into a perfect 
state of repose. 

Gertrude, who slept soundly until wakened by Miss Graham, 
started up in astonishment on seeing her dressed and standing by 
the bed-side. — a most unusual circumstance, and one which re- 
versed the customary order of things, as Gertrude’s morning kiss 
was wont to be Emily’s first intimation of daylight. 

“ Six o’clock, Gerty, and the boat starts at seven ! The doc- 
tor has already been knocking at our door.” 

“ How soundly I have slept ! ” exclaimed Gertrude. “ I won- 
der if it ’s a pleasant day.” 

“ Beautiful,” replied Emily, “ but very warm. The sun was 
shining in so brightly, that I had to close the blinds on account 
of the heat.” 

Gertrude made haste to repair for lost time, but was not quite 
dressed when they were summoned to the early breakfast pre- 
pared for travellers. She had, also, her own and Emily’s trunks 
to lock, and therefore insisted upon the others preceding her to 
die breakfast-hall, where she promised to join them in a few 
moments. 

The company assembled at this early hour was small, consist- 
ing onlv of two parties beside Dr. Jei^my s, and a Sew gent'emen. 


\m 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


most of them business men, who, having partaken ol‘ their fooi 
in a business-like manner, started off in haste for their different 
destinations. Of those who still lingered at the table when Gerty 
made her appearance, there was only one whom she particularly 
observed, during the few moments allowed her by Dr. Jeremy for 
the enjoyment of her breakfast. 

This was a gentleman who sat at some distance from her, idly 
balancing his tea-spoon on the edge of his cup. He had con- 
cluded his own repast, but seemed quite at his leisure, and pre- 
vious to Gertrude’s entrance had won Mrs. Jeremy’s animadversions 
by a slight propensity he had manifested to make a more critical 
survey df her paHy than she found wholly agreeable. “ Do, 
pray,” said she to the doctor, “ send the waiter to ask that man 
to take something himself: I can’t bear to have anybody looking 
at me so when I ’m eating ! ” 

“ He is n’t looking at you, wife ; it ’s Emily that has taken his 
fancy. Emily, my dear, there ’s a gentleman, over opposite, who 
admires you exceedingly.” 

“ Is there ? ” said Emily, smiling. “ I am very much obliged 
to him. May I venture to return the compliment ? ” 

u Yes. He ’s a fine-looking fellow, though wife, here, does n’ 
seem to like him very well.” 

At this moment Gertrude joined them, and, as she made hei 
morning salutation to the doctor and his wife, and gayly apologized 
to the former for her tardiness, the fine color which mantled her 
countenance, and the deep brilliancy of her large dark eyes, drew 
glances of affectionate admiration from the kind old couple, and 
were, perhaps, the cause of the stranger’s attention being at once 
transferred from the lovely and interesting face of Emily to the 
more youthful, beaming and eloquent features of Gertrude. 

She had hardly taken her seat before she became aware of the 
notice she was attracting. It embarrassed her, and she was giad 
when, after a moment or two, the gentleman hastily dropped his 
tea-spoon, rose and left the room. As he passed out, she had an 
opportunity of observing him, which she had not ventured to de 
wnile he sat opposite to her. 

He was a man considerably above the middle height, slender 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


325 


out finely formed, and of a graceful and dignified bearing. His 
features were rather sharp, but expressive, and even handsome 
his eyes, dark, keen and piercing, had a most penetrating look* 
while his firmly-compressed lips spoke of resolution and strength 
of will. 

But the chief peculiarity of his appearance was his hair, 
which was deeply tinged with gray, and in the vicinity of his 
temples almost snowy white. This was so strikingly in contrast 
with the youthful fire of his eye, and the easy lightness of his 
step, that, instead of seeming the effect of age, and giving him a 
title to veneration^ it rather enhanced the contradictory claims of 
his otherwise apparent youth and vigor. 

“ What a queer-looking man ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Jeremy, when 
he had passed out. 

“ An elegant-looking man, is n’t he ? ” said Gertrude. 

“ Elegant? ” rejoined Mrs. Jeremy. “ What ! with that gray 
head ? ” 

“ I think it’s beautiful,” said Gertrude; “ but I wish he 
did n’t look so melancholy ; it makes me quite sad to see him.” 

“ How old should you think he was ? ” asked Dr. J eremy. 

“ About fifty,” said Mrs. Jeremy. 

“ About thirty,” said Gertrude, and both in the same breath. 

“ A wide difference,” remarked Emily. “ Doctor, you must 
decide the point.” 

“ Impossible ! I would n’t venture to tell that man’s age 
within ten years, at least. Wife has got him old enough, cer- 
tainly : I ’m not sure but I should set him as low even as Ger- 
trude’s mark. Age never turned his hair gray — that is certain.” 

Intimation was now given that passengers for the boat must be 
on the alert; and all speculation upon the probable age of the 
stranger (a fruitless kind of speculation, often indulged in, and, 
sometimes a source of vain and endless discussion) was suddenlj 
b&d peremptorily suspended. 

28 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


His mien is lofty, but his gaze 
Too well a wandering soul betrays . 

His full, dark eye at times is bright 
With strange and momentary light. 

And oft his features and his air 
A shade of troubled mystery wear, — 

A glance of hurried wildness, fraught 
With some unfathomable thought. 

Mrs. Hemans. 

To most of our travelling public a little trip from icstcn hate 
flfew York State seems an every-day affair, scarce worth calling 
a journey ; but to Dr. Jeremy it was a momentous event, calling 
the good physician out of a routine of daily professional visits, 
which, during a period of twenty years, had not been interrupted 
by a week’s absence from home, and plunging him at once into 
that whirl of hurry, tumult and excitement, which exists on all 
mr great routes, especially in the summer season, the time when 
the American populace takes its yearly pleasure excursion. 

The doctor was by nature and habit a social being ; never 
shrinking from intercourse with his fellow-men, but rather seek- 
ing and enjoying their companionship on all occasions. He knew 
how to adapt himself to the taste of young and old, rich and 
poor, and was well acquainted with city life in all its forms. Lit. 
the art of travelling, however, — an art to be acquired by practice 
only, — he was totally unversed. He had yet to learn the adroit 
use of those many springs, which, touched at the right mo- 
ment, and by a skilful hand, soften the obdurate hearts of 
landlords, win the devoted attendance of wiiters, inspire railroad 
conductors and steamboat officials with a spirit of accommodation, 
ind convert the clamorous, noisj hackmen into quiet, obedient 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


did* 


and humble servants at command. In Dr. Jeremy’s travelling 
days the stage-coach was the chief vehicle of convenience and 
speed ; the driver was a civil fellow, each passenger a person of 
consequence, and each passenger’s baggage a thing not to be 
despised. Now, on the contrary, people moved in masses ; a 
single individual was a man of no influence, a mere unit in the 
great whole, and his much-valued luggage that which seemed in 
his eyes a mark for the heaviest knocks and bruises. Dr. Jeremy 
was appalled at this new state of things, and quite unable to 
reconcile to it either his taste or temper. To him the modern 
landlord resembled the keeper of an intelligence-office, who con- 
descendingly glances at his books to see if he can furnish the 
humble suppliant with a situation, and often turns him away 
mortified and disappointed ; the waiters, whom the honest and 
unsophisticated doctor scorned to bribe, were an impudent, lazy 
set of varlets ; conductors and steamboat masters, lordly tyrants ; 
and the hackmen, a swarm of hungry, buzzing, stinging wasps, 
let loose on wharves and in depots for the torment of their 
victims. 

Thus were these important members of society stigmatized, and 
loudly were they railed at by our traveller, who invariably, at 
the commencement and close of every trip, got wrought up to a 
high pitch of excitement at the wrongs and indignities to which 
he was subjected. It was astonishing, however, to see how 
quickly he cooled down, and grew comfortable and contented, 
when he was once established in car or steamboat, or had suc- 
ceeded in obtaining suitable quarters at a hotel. He would then 
immediately subside into the obliging, friendly and sociable man 
of the world ; would make acquaintance with everybody about 
him, and talk and behave with such careless unconcern, that one 
would have supposed he considered himself fixed for life, an^ 
was moreover perfectly satisfied with the fate that destiny had 
assigned to him. 

Thankful, therefore, were the ladies of his party when they 
were safe on board the steamboat a circumstance upon which 
they were still congratulating themselves and each other, while 
they piled up their heavy shawls and other extra garments in an 


828 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


oat-of-the-way corner .of die cabin, when the doctors v )ic% #au 
again heard calling to them from the other end of the .eng 
saloon : “ Come, come, wife, — Gertrude, — Emily ! what at** you 
staying down in this stived-up place for ? you ’ll lose the best 
part of the view and, coming towards them, he took Gertrude’s 
arm, and would have hurried her away, leaving Mrs. Jeremy and 
Emily to follow when they were ready ; but Gertrude would not 
trust Emily to ascend the cabin-stairs under any guardianship 
but her own, and Mrs. Jeremy immediately engaged the doctor 
in an animated discussion as to the advisability of his adopting a 
straw hat, which the thoughtful wife had brought from home in 
her hand, and which she was eager to see enjoyed. By the time 
the question was settled, and Emily, at Gertrude’s persuasion, 
had been induced to exchange her thin mantilla for a light trav- 
elling-cloak, which the latter was sure -she would require, as there 
was a fresh breeze stirring on the river, the boat had proceeded 
some distance ; and when our party finally gained the head 
of the stairs, and looked about them for seats on deck, not a 
single vacant bench or accommodation of any sort was to be 
seen. There was an unusually large number of passengers, 
nearly all of whom were collected at the stern of the boat. Dr. 
Jeremy was obliged to leave his ladies, and go off in search of 
chairs. 

“ Don’t let us stay here ! ” whispered Mrs. Jeremy to Gertrude 
and Emily. “ Let ’s go right back, before the doctor comes ! 
There are beautiful great rocking-chairs down in the cabin, with- 
out a soul to sit in them, and I ’m sure we an’t wanted here 
to make up a company. I hate to stand with all these people 
staring at us, and crowing to think they ’ve got such nice places : 
don’t you, Emily? ” 

Mrs. Jeremy was one of the people who were constantly for- 
getting that Emily could not see. 

But Gertrude was not — she never forgot it ; and, as she 
stood with her arm lightly passed around her friend’s waist, to 
prevent the motion of the boat from throwing her off her balance, 
it was no wonder they attracted attention ; the one so brght, 
erect, and strong with youth and health, that she seemed a fii 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


82 S 


protector for the other, who, in her sweet and gentle helplessness, 
eaned upon her io trustingly. 

“ I think, when we get seated in the shade, we shall find 
it cooler here than it is below,” said Emily, in reply to Mrs. Jere- 
my’s urgent proposition that they should make their escape in 
the doctor’s absence. “You always prefer the coolest place, I 
believe.” 

“ So I do ; but I noticed there was a good draught of air in the 
adies’ saloon, and — ” Here the good woman’s argument was inter- 
rupted by the cordial salutation of Dr. Gryseworth, who, pre- 
viously seated with his back towards them, had turned at the sound 
of Emily’s flute-like voice, which, once heard, invariably left an 
impression upon the memory. When he had finished shaking 
hands, he insisted upon giving up his seat to Mrs. J eremy ; and, at 
the same instant, another gentleman, who, owing to the throng of 
passengers, had hitherto been unnoticed by our party, rose, and 
bowing politely, placed his own chair for the accommodation of 
Erniiy, and then walked quickly away. It was the stranger whom 
they had seen at breakfast. Gertrude recognized his keen, dark 
eye, even before she perceived his singular hair; and, as she 
thanked him, and placed Emily in the offered seat, she felt her- 
self color under his earnest glance. But Dr. Gryseworth imme- 
diately claimed her attention for the introduction to his daughters, 
and all thought of the retreating stranger was banished for the 
present. 

The Miss Gryseworths were intelligent-looking girls ; the eldest, 
lately returned from Europe, where she had been travelling with 
her father, was considered a very elegant and superior person, and 
Gertrude was charmed with the lady-like cordiality with which 
they both made her acquaintance, and still more with the amiable 
and sympathizing attentions which they paid to Emily. 

By the time that Dr. Jeremv returned with the solitary chair 
which he had been able to obtain, he found Gertrude and Dr 
Gryseworth comfortably accommodated, through the skilful agency 
of the latter, and was thus enabled to sink at once into his seat, 
and subside into that state of easy unconcern which admmibh 
became his pleasant, genial temperament. 

28 * 


330 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


Long before the boat reached West Point, where the Jeremyf 
were to go on shore, it was plain to be seen that an excellent 
understanding subsisted between Gertrude and the Miss Gryse- 
worths, and that time only was wanting to ripen their acquaint- 
ance into friendship. 

Gertrude was not one of those young persons who consider every 
girl of their own age entitled to their immediate intimacy and con- 
fidence. She had her decided preferences, and, though invariably 
civil and obliging, was rarely disposed to admit new members into 
her sacred circle of friends. She was quick, however, to recog- 
nize a congenial spirit ; and such an one, once found, was claimed 
by her enthusiastic nature, and engrafted into her affections as 
something of kindred birth. Nor was the readily adopted tie 
easily loosened or broken. Whom Gertrude once loved, she loved 
long and well ; faithful was she in her efforts to serve, and prompt 
in her sympathy to feel for those whose interest and happiness 
friendship made dear to her as her own. 

Perhaps Ellen Gryseworth divined this trait of her character, 
and appreciated the value of so steady and truthful a regard ; for 
rhe certainly tried hard to win it ; and her father, who had heard 
Gertrude’s history from Dr. Jeremy, smiled approvingly, as he 
witnessed the pains which his high-bred and somewhat aristocratic 
daughter was taking to render herself agreeable to one whose 
social position had in it nothing to excite her ambition, and whose 
person, mind and manners, constituted her sole recommendation. 

They had been for about an hour engaged in the enjoyment of 
each other’s society, and in the view of some of the most charming 
scenery in the world, when Netta Gryseworth touched her sister’s 
arm, and, glancing towards another part of the boat, said, in an 
under tone, “ Ellen, do invite Mr. Phillips to come back and bo 
introduced to Miss Flint ! — see how lonesome the poor man 
ooks.” 

Gertrude followed the direction of Netta ’s eye, and saw the 
stranger of the morning at some distance from them, slowly 
pacing up and down, with a serious and abstracted air. 

“ He has not been near us for an hour,” said Netta, “ I 
ifraid he ha* got the blues. ’ 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


331 


I flop's we have not lightened your friend away, ' said 
Gertrude. 

“ O, no, indeed ! ” replied Ellen. “ Although Mr. Phillips is 
but a recent acquaintance, we have found him so independent, and 
sometimes so whimsical, that I am never astonished at his pro- 
ceedings, or mortified at being suddenly forsaken by him. There 
are some people, you know, for whom it is always sufficient excuse 
to say, It is their way . I wish he would condescend to join us 
again, however; I should like to introduce him to you, Miss 
Flint.” 

“You would n’t like him,” said Netta. 

“ Now, that is not fair, Netta ! ” exclaimed her sister ; “ to try 
and prejudice Miss Flint against my friend. You must n’t let her 
influence you,” added she, addressing Gertrude. “ She has n’t 
known him half as long as I have ; and I do not dislike him, by 
any means. My little, straightforward sister never likes odd 
people, and I must confess that Mr. Phillips is somewhat eccen- 
tric ; but he interests me all the more on that account, and I feel 
positive he and you would have many ideas and sentiments in 
common.” 

“ How can you say so, Ellen ? ” said Netta. “ I think they are 
totally different.” 

“You must consider Netta’s remark very complimentary, Miss 
Flint,” said Ellen, good-naturedly ; “ it would not be quite so 
much so, if it had come from me.” 

“ But you wished me to become acquainted with your oddity,” 
remarked Gertrude, addressing herself to Netta. “ I suspect you 
act on the principle that one’s misfortunes should be shared by 
one’s friends.” 

Netta laughed. ‘ Not exactly,” said she ; “ it was compas- 
sion for him that moved me. I can’t help pitying him when 
he looks so homesick, and I thought your society would brign^en 
him up and do him good.” 

“ Ah, Netta ! Netta ! ” cried her sister ; “he has excited your 
83mipathy, I ^ce. A few days more, and I should n’t be surprised 
if you went oeyond me in your admiration of him. If so, take 
care, you transparent creature, not to betra/ your inconsistency.” 


332 


THE LaMPLIGHTEK. 


Then, turning to Gertrude, she said, “ Netta met Mr. Phillips 
yesterday for the" first time, and has not seemed very favorably 
impressed. Father and I were passengers in the same steamer in 
which he came from Liverpool, a few weeks ago. He had an ill 
turn in the early ‘part of the voyage, and it was in i professional 
way that father first made his acquaintance. I was surprised at 
seeing him on board the boat to-day, for he mentioned no such 
intention yesterday.” 

Gertrude suspected that the agreeable young lady might her- 
self be the cause of his journey; but she did not say so, — her native 
delicacy and the slight knowledge she had of the parties forbade 
such an allusion, — and the conversation soon taking another turn, 
Mr. Phillips was not again adverted to, though Gertrude observed, 
just before the boat stopped at West Point, that Dr. Jeremy and 
Dr. Gryseworth, having left their party, had joined him, and that 
the trio were engaged in a colloquy which seemed to possess equal 
interest to them all. 

At West Point Gertrude parted from her new friends, who 
expressed an earnest hope that they should again meet in Saratoga ; 
and before the bustle of going on shore had subsided, and she had 
found on the narrow pier a safe place of refuge for Emily and her- 
self, the boat was far up the river, and the Miss Gryseworths 
quite undistinguishable among the crowd that swarmed the deck. 

Our travellers passed one night only at West Point. The 
weather continued extremely hot, and Dr. Jeremy, perceiving that 
Emily drooped under the oppressive atmosphere, was desirous to 
reach the summit of Catskill Mountain before the Sabbath, which 
was now near at hand. 

One solitary moonlight evening, however, sufficed to give Ger- 
trude some idea of the beauties of the place. She had no oppor 
fcunity to observe it in detail ; she saw it only as a whole ; but, thus 
presented to her vision in all the dreamy loveliness of a summer's 
night, it left on her fresh and impressive mind a vague sentiment 
of snnder and delight at the surpassing sweetness of what seemed 
rather a glimpse of Paradise than an actual show, of earth, so har- 
monious was the scene, so calm, so still, so peaceful. “ Emily 
darling,” said she as they stood together in a rustic arbor, com* 


THE ijAMPUGHTER. 


33k 


manding the most striking prospect both of the river and the shore, 
“ it looks like you you ought to live here, and be the priestess of 
such a temple ! ” and, locking her hand in that of Emily, she 
poured into her attentive ear the holy and elevated sentiments to 
which the time and the place gave birth. To pour out her 
thoughts to Emily was like whispering to her own heart, and the 
response to those thoughts was as sure and certain. 

So passed the evening away, and an early hour in the morning 
found them again steaming up the river. Their first day’s expe- 
rience having convinced them of the danger of delay, they lost no 
time in securing places on deck, for the boat was as crowded as on 
the previous morning ; but the shores of West Point were hardly 
passed from their view before Gertrude’s watchful eye detected in 
Emily’s countenance the well-known signs of weariness and debil- 
ity. Sacrificing, without hesitation, the intense pleasure she was 
herself deriving from the beautiful scenes through which the boat 
was at the moment passing, she at once proposed that they should 
seek the cabin, where Miss Graham might rest in greater stillness 
and comfort. 

Emily, however, would not listen to the proposal ; would not 
think of depriving Gertrude of the rare pleasure she knew she 
must be experiencing. 

“ The prospec is all lost upon me now, Emily,” said Gertrude. 
“ I see only your tired face. Do go and lie down, if it be only to 
please me ; you hardly slept at all last night.” 
s “ Are you talking of going below ? ” exclaimed Mrs. J eremy. 
u I, for one, shall be thankful to ; it ’s as comfortable again, and 
we can see all we want to from the cabin- windows ; can’t we, 
Emily?” 

“ Should you really prefer it ? ” inquired Emily. 

“ Indeed, I should ! ” said Mrs. Jeremy, with such emphasis 
♦hat her sincerity could not be doubted. 

“ Th n, if you will promise to stay here, Gertrude,” said Emily, 
41 1 will go with Mrs. Jeremy.” 

Gertrude assented to the plan ; but insisted upon first accompany- 
ing them, to find a vacant berth for Emily, and see her under cir- 
cumstances which would promise repose. 


$34 


THE tu* MPLIGHTER 


Dr. Jeremy having, in the mean time, gone to inquire aboui 
dinner, they at once carried their plan into effect. Emily wad 
really too weak to endure the noise and confusion on deck, and, 
after she had lain down in the quiet and nearly deserted saloon, 
Gertrude stood smoothing back her hair, and watching her pale 
countenance, until she was accused of violating the conditions 
of their agreement, and was at last driven away by the lively and 
good-natured doctor’s lady, who declared herself perfectly well 
able to take care of Emily. 

“ You ’d better make haste back,” said she, “ before you lose 
your seat ; and mind, Gerty, don’t let the doctor come near us ; 
he ’ll be teasing us to go back again, and we ’ve no idea of doing 
any such thing.” Saying which, Mrs. Jeremy untied her bonnet- 
strings, put her feet up in the opposite chair, clapped her hands at 
Gertrude, and bade her be gone. 

Gertrude ran off laughing, and a smile was still on her face 
when she reached the staircase. As she came up with her usual 
quick and light step, a tall figure moved aside to let her pass. It 
was Mr. Phillips. He bowed, and Gertrude, returning the salu- 
tation, passed on to the place she had left, wondering how he 
came to be again their travelling companion. He could not have 
been on board previously to her going below with Emily ; she was 
sure she should have seen him ; she should have known him among 
a thousand. He must have taken the boat at Newburgh ; it stopped 
there while she was in the cabin. 

As these reflections passed through her mind, she resumed hei 
seat, which was placed at the very stern of the boat, and, with 
her back to most of the company., zed out upon the river. She 
had sat thus for about five minutes, her thoughts divided between 
the scenery and the interesting countenance of the stranger, when 
a shadow passed before her, and, looking up, prepared to see and 
address Dr. Jeremy, she betrayed a little confusion at again 
encountering a pair of eyes whose earnest, magnetic gaze had the 
power to disconcert and bewilder her. She was turning away, 
somewhat abruptly, when the stranger spoke. 

“ Gocd* morning, voung .ady! our paths still lie in the same 


ffHE LAMPLIGHTER. 


335 


direction, I gee. Will you honor me by making use of my guide* 
book ? ” 

As he spoke, he offered her a little book containing a map of 
the river, and the shores on either side. Gertrude took it, and 
thanked him. As she unfolded the map, he stationed himself 9 
few steps distant, and leaned over the railing, in an apparently 
absent state of mind ; nor did he speak to her again for some min 
utes. Then, suddenly turning towards her, he said, u You lik^ 
all this very much.” 

“ Very much,” said Gertrude. 

4 You have never seen anything so beautiful before in youi 
life He did not seem to question her ; he spoke as if he knew 

“ It is an old story to you, I suppose,” said Gertrude 

“ What makes you think so ? ” asked he, smiling. 

Gertrude was disconcerted by his look, and still more by his 
smile ; it changed his whole face so, — it made him look so hand- 
some, and yet so melancholy. She blushed, and could not 
reply ; he saved her the trouble. — “ That is hardly a fair question, 
is it ? You probably think you have as much reason for your 
opinion as I had for mine. You are wrong, however ; I never was 
here before ; but I am too old a traveller to carry my enthusiasm 
in my eyes — as you do,” added he, after a moment’s pause 
during which he looked her full in the face. Then, seeming, fo: 
the first time, to perceive the embarrassment which his scrutiny of 
her features occasioned, he turned away, and a shadow passed 
over his fine countenance, lending it for a moment an expressior 
of mingled bitterness and pathos, which served at once to disarm 
Gertrude’s confusion at his self-introduction and subsequent 
remarks, and render her forgetful of everything but the strange 
interest with which this singular man inspired her. 

Presently, taking a vacant chair next hers, he directed her 
attention to a beautiful country residence on their right, spoke of 
its former owner, whom he had met in a foreign land, and related 
some interesting anecdotes concerning an adventurous journey 
wnich they had taken together. This again introduced other 
topics, chiefly connected with wanderings in countries almost 
unknown, even in this exploring age ; and so rich and varied wa# 


83(5 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


the stranger’s conversation, so graphic were his descriptions, sg 
exuberant and glowing his imagination, and so powerful his 
command of words and his gift at expressing and giving force to 
his thoughts, that his young and enthusiastic listener sat entranced 
with admiration and delight. 

Her highly-wrought and intellectual nature sympathized fully 
with the fervor and poetry of a mind as sensitive as her own to 
the great and wonderful, whether in nature or art ; and, her fancy 
and interest thus taken by storm, her calm and observant enter- 
tainer had soon the satisfaction of perceiving that he had suc- 
ceeded in disarming her diffidence and embarrassment ; for, as she 
listened to his words, and even met the occasional glance of his 
dark eyes, her animated and beaming countenance no longer 
showed signs of fear or distrust. 

He took no advantage, however, of the apparent self-forgetful- 
ness with which she enjoyed his society, but continued to enlarge 
upon such subjects as naturally presented themselves, and was 
careful not to disturb her equanimity by again bestowing upon 
her the keen and scrutinizing gaze which had proved so discon- 
certing. By the time, therefore, that Dr. Jeremy came in search 
of his young charge, conversation between her and the stranger 
had assumed so much ease and freedom from restraint that the 
doctor opened his eyes in astonishment, shrugged his shoulders, 
and exclaimed, “ This is pretty well, I declare ! ” 

Gertrude did not see the doctor approach, but looked up at the 
sound of his voice. Conscious of the surprise it must be to him 
to find her talking so familiarly with a complete stranger, she 
colored slightly at his abrupt remark; but, observing that her 
companion was quite unconcerned, and even received it with a 
smile, she felt herself rather amused than embarrassed ; for, 
strangely enough, the latter feeling had almost entirely vanished, 
and she had come to feel confidence in her fellow-traveller, who 
rose, shook hands with Dr. Jeremy, to whom he had, the previous 
day, been introduced, and said, with perfect composure, “ Will 
you have the kindness, sir, to present me to this young lady ? 
We have already had some conversation together, but do not yet 
know by what name we may address each other.’' 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


387 


Dr Jeremy having performed the ceremony of introduction, 
Mr. Phillips bowed gracefully, and .looked at Gertrude in such 
a benignant, fatherly way that she hesitated not to take his 
offered hand. He detained hers a moment while he said, “ Do nor 
be afraid of me when we meet again; ” and then walked away, 
and paced slowly up and down the deck until passengers for 
Oatskill were summoned to dinner, when he, as well as Dr 
Jeremy and Gertrude, went below. 

The doctor tried to rally Gertrude a little about her gray- 
headed beau, declaring that he was yet young and handsome, and 
that she could have his hair dyed any color she pleased. But he 
could not succeed in annoying her in that way, for her interest in 
him, which she did not deny, was quite independent of his per- 
sonal appearance. 

The bustle, however, of dinner, and going on shore at Catskill, 
banished from the good doctor’s head all thought of everything 
except the safety of himself, his ladies, and their baggage; fit 
cause, indeed, for anxiety to a more experienced traveller than 
he. For, so short was the time allotted for the boat to stop at 
the landing and deposit the passengers, and such was the confu- 
sion attending the operation of pushing them on shore and fling- 
ing their baggage after them, that when the panting engine was 
again set in motion the little crowd collected on the wharf re- 
sembled rather a flock of frightened sheep than human beings 
with a free will of their own. 

Emily, whose nervous system was somewhat disordered, clung 
tremblingly to Gertrude ; and Gertrude found herself, she knew 
not how, leaning on the arm of Mr. Phillips, to whose silent 
exertions they were both indebted for their safety in disembark- 
ing. Mrs. Jeremy, in the mean time, was counting up the 
trunks, while her husband, with his foot upon one of them, and 
a carpet-bag in his left hand, was loudly denouncing the steam- 
boat, its conductors, and the whole hurrying, skurrying Yankee 
nation. 

Two stage-coaches were waiting at the wharf to take passen- 
gers up the mountain, and before Dr. Jeremy had turned hia 
back upon the river Emily and Gertrude were placed in one t>f 
29 


338 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


them by Mr. Phillips, who, without asking questions, or even 
speaking at all, took this office upon himself, and then went to 
inform the doctor of their whereabouts. The doctor and his wife 
soon joined them; a party of strangers occupied the other seats 
in the coach, and, after some de ay, they commenced the afternoon^ 
drive 


OHAPTER XXXVi. 


Believe in God as in the sun, — and, lo ! 

Along thy soul morn’s youth restored shall glow ‘ 9 
As rests the earth, so rest, 0, troubled heart, 

Rest, till the burden of the cloud depart ! 

New Timow. 

Before they had passed through the dusty village, and gained 
the road leading in the direction of the Mountain House, they 
became painfully conscious of the vast difference between the 
temperature of the river and that of the inland country, and, in 
being suddenly deprived of the refreshing breeze they had enjoyed 
on board the boat, they fully realized the extreme heat pf the 
weather. For the first few miles Gertrude’s whole attention was 
required to shield Emily and herself from the rays of a burning 
sun which shone into the coach full upon their faces, and it was 
a great relief when they at last reached the steep but smooth 
and beautifully-shaded road which led up the side of the moun- 
tain. 

The atmosphere being perfectly clear, the gradually widening 
prospect was most beautiful, and Gertrude’s delight and rapture 
were such that the restraint imposed by stage-coach decorum was 
almost insupportable. When, therefore, the ascent became so labo- 
rious that the gentlemen were invited to alight, and relieve the 
weary horses of a part of their burden, Gertrude gladly accepted 
Dr. Jeremy’s proposal that she should accompany him on a walk 
of a mile or two. 

Gertrude was an excellent walker, and she and the still active 
doctor soon left the coaches far behind them. At a sudden turn 
in the road they stopped to view the scene below, and, lost in 
Bilent admiration, stood enjoying the stillness and beauty of the 


m 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


spot, wnen tb y wer; startled by a voice close beside them saying 
“ A fine landscape. ;ertainly ! ” 

They looked around, and saw Mr. Phillips seated upon a moss- 
grown rock, against which Gertrude was at the moment leaning. 
His attitude was easy and careless, his broad-brimmed straw hat 
lay on the ground, where it had fallen, and his snow-besprinkled 
but wavy and still beautiful hair was tossed back from his high 
and expanded forehead. One would have thought, to look at him, 
leaning so idly and even boyishly upon his hand, that he had been 
sitting there for hours at least, and felt quite at home in the place. 
He rose to his feet, however, immediately upon being perceived 
and joined Dr. Jeremy and Gertrude. 

“ You have got the start of us, sir,” said the former. 

“ Yes ; I have walked from the village, — my practice always 
when the roads are such that no time can be gained by riding.” 

As he spoke, he placed in Gertrude’s hand, without looking at 
her, or seeming conscious what he was doing, a bouquet of rich 
laurel-blossoms, which he had probably gathered during Lis walk. 
She would have thanked him, but his absent manner was such that 
it afforded her no opportunity, especially as he went on talking 
with the doctor, as if she had not been present. 

All three resumed their walk. Mr. Phillips and Dr. Jeremy 
conversed in an animated manner, and Gertrude, content to be a 
istener, soon perceived that she was not the only person to whom 
the stranger had power to render himself agreeable. Dr. Jeremy 
engaged him upon a variety of subjects, upon all of which he ap- 
peared equally well-informed ; and Gertrude smiled to see her old 
friend more than once rub his hands together, according to his 
well-known manner of expressing boundless satisfaction. 

Now, Gertrude thought their new acquaintance must be a bot- 
anist by profession, so versed was he in everything relating to 
that department of science. Then, again, she was equally sure 
that geology must have been with him an absorbing study, so in- 
timate seemed his acquaintance with mother earth ; and both of 
these impressions were in turn dispelled, when he talked of the 
ocean like a sailor, of the cc rnting-room like a merchant, of 
Paris like a Liar, of fashion and the world. 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


34 ) 


tc. the mean time, she walked beside him, silent but lot forgot* 
ten or unnoticed ; for, as they approached a rough and steep 
ascent, he offered his arm, and expressed a fear lest she should 
become fatigued. She assured him there was no danger of that. 
Dr. Jeremy declared it his belief that Gerty could out-walk them 
both ; and, thus satisfied, Mr. Phillips resumed the broken thread 
of their discourse, into which, before long, Gertrude was drawn, 
almost unawares. 

Mr. Phillips was a man who knew how to inspire awe, and 
even fear, when such was his pleasure. The reverse being the 
case, however, he had equal ability to dispel such sentiments, 
awaken confidence, and bid character unfold itself at his bidding. 
He ao longer seemed in Gertrude’s eyes a stranger; — he was a 
nystery, certainly, but not a forbidding one. She longed to 
xnow more of him; to learn the history of a life which many an 
incident of his own narrating proved to have been made up of 
strange and mingled experience ; especially did her sympathetic 
nature desire to fathom the cause of that deep-seated melancholy 
which shadowed and darkened his noble countenance, and made 
his very smile a sorrowful thing. 

Dr. Jeremy, who, in a degree, shared her curiosity, asked a few 
leading questions, in hopes to obtain some clue to his new friend’s 
personal history ; but in vain. Mr. Phillips’ lips were either 
sealed on the subject, or opened only to baffle the curiosity of his 
interrogator. 

At length the doctor was compelled to give way to a weariness 
which he could no longer disguise from himself or his companions, 
much as he disliked to acknowledge the fact ; and, seating them- 
selves by the road-side, they awaited the arrival of the coach. 

There had been a short silence, when the doctor, looking at 
Gertrude, remarked, “ There will be no church for us to-morrow, 
Gerty.” 

“ No church ! ” exclaimed Gertrude, gazing about her with a 
look of reverence ; “ how can you say so ? ” 

Mr. Phillips bestowed upon her a smile df interest and inquiry, 
and said, in a peculiar tone, “ There is no Sunday here, Miss 
Flint it do is n’t come up so high. 

29 * 


842 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


He spoke lightly, — too lightly, Gertrude thought, — and she 
replied with some seriousness, and much sweetness, “ I have often 
rejoiced that the Sabbath had been sent down into the lower earth ; 
the higher w'e go, the nearer we come, I trust, to the eternal Sab- 
bath,” 

Mr. Phillips bit his lip, and turned away without replying 
There was *n expression about his mouth which Gertrude did not 
exactly like ; but she could not find it in her heart to reproach him 
for the slight sneer which his manner, rather than his look, im- 
plied, for, as he gazed a moment or two into vacancy, there was 
in his wild and absent countenance such a look oi sorrow, that 
she could only pity and wonder. The ecaohes now came up, and, 
as he placed her in her former seat, h .esumed his wonted serene 
and kindly expression, and she felt convinced that it was only 
doing justice to his frank and open face to believe that nothing 
was hid behind it that would not do honor to the man. 

An hour more brought them to the Mountain House, and, 
greatly to their joy, they were at once shown to some of the most 
excellent rooms the hotel afforded. As Gertrude stood at the 
window of the chamber allotted to herself and Emily, and heard the 
loud murmurs of some of her fellow-travellers who were denied 
any tolerable accommodation, she could not but be astonished at 
Dr. Jeremy’s unusual good fortune in being treated with such 
marked partiality. 

Emily, being greatly fatigued with the toilsome journey, had 
supper brought to her own room, and Gertrude partaking of it 
with her, neither of them sought other society that night, but at 
an early hour betook themselves to rest. 

The last thing that Gertrude heard, before falling asleep, was 
the voice of Dr. Jeremy, saying, as he passed their door, “ Take 
care, Gerty, and be up in time to see the sun rise.” 

She was not up in time, however, nor was the doctor himself ; 
neither of them had calculated upon the sun’s being such an early 
riser ; and though Gertrude, mindful of the caution, sprung up 
almost before her eyes were open, a flood of daylight was pouring 
in at the window, and a scene met her gaze which at once put to 
flight every regret a^; having overslept herself since nothing, ohe 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


343 


thought, could be ni ;>re solemnly glorious than that which now 
lay outspread before her. 

From the surface of the rocky platform upon which the house 
was built, far out to the distant horizon, nothing was to be seen 
but a sea of snowy clouds, which wholly overshadowed the lower 
earth, and hid it from view. Vast, solid, and of the most perfect 
whiteness, they stretched on every side, forming, as they lay in 
thick masses, between which not a crevice was discernible, an 
unbroken curtain, dividing the heavens from the earth. 

While most of the world, however, was thus shut out from the 
clear light of morning, the mountain-top was rejoicing in an un- 
usually brilliant and glorious dawn, the beauty of which was 
greatly enhanced by those very clouds which were obscuring and 
shadowing the dwellings of men below. A fairy bark might have 
floated upon the undulating waves which glistened in the sun- 
shine like new-fallen snow, and which, contrasted with the clear 
blue sky above, formed a picture of singular grandeur. The 
foliage of the oaks, the pines and the maples, which had found 
root in this lofty region, was rich, clear and polished, and tame 
and fearless birds of various note were singing in the branches 
Gertrude gave one long look, then hastened to dress herself and 
go out upon the platform. The house was perfectly still ; no one 
seemed yet to be stirring, and she stood for some time entranced 
almost breathless, with awe and admiration. 

At length she heard footsteps, and, looking up, saw Gr. and 
Mrs. J eremy approaching ; the former, as usual, full of life, and 
dragging forward his reluctant, sleepy partner, whose countenance 
proclaimed how unwillingly she had foregone her morning nap. 
The doctor rubbed his hands as they joined Gertrude. “ Very fine 
this, Gerty ! A touch beyond anything I had calculated upon,” 

Gertrude turned upon him her beaming eyes, but did not 
speak. Satisfied, however, with the expression of her face, which 
was sufficient, without words, to indicate her appreciation of the 
scene, the doctor stepped to the edge of the flat rock upon which 
they stood, placed his hands beneath his coat-tails, and indulged 
in a soliloquy, made up of short excla nations and interject ional 


Mi 


THE LAMPLIGHTER, 


phrases, expressi :e of his approbation, still further confirmed and 
emphasized by a quick, regular nodding of his head. 

“ Why, this looks queer, does n’t it ? ” said Mrs. Jeremy, rub- 
bing her eyes, and gazing about her ; “ but I dare say it would 
be just so an hour or two hence. I don’t see what the doctor 
would make me get up so early for.” Then, catching sight of 
her husband’s position, she darted forward, exclaiming, “ Dr. 
Terry, for mercy’s sake, don’t stand so near the edge of that 
precipice ! Why, are you crazy, man ? You frighten me to 
death ! you ’ll fall over and break your neck, as sure as the world ! ” 

Finding the doctor deaf to her entreaties, she caught hold of 
his coat, and tried to drag him backwards; upon which he turned 
about, inquired what was the matter, and, perceiving her anxiety, 
considerately retreated «a few paces; the next moment, however, 
he was once more in the same precarious spot. The same scene 
was reenacted, and finally, after the poor woman’s fears had been 
excited and relieved half a dozen times in succession, she grew 
so disturbed, that, looking most imploringly at Gertrude, she 
begged her to get the doctor away from that dangerous place, for 
the poor man was so venturesome he would surely be killed. 

“ Suppose we explore that little path at the right of the house,’ 
suggested Gertrude ; “it looks attractive.” 

“So it does,” said Mrs. Jeremy; “beautiful little shady path! 
Come, doctor, Gerty and I are going to walk up here, — come.” 

The doctor looked in the direction in which she pointed. 
‘ Ah ! ” said he, “ that is the path the man at the office spoke 
about ; it leads up to the pine gardens. We ’ll climb up, by all 
means, and see what sort of a place it is.” 

Gertrude led the way, Mrs. Jeremy followed, and the doctor 
Drought up the rear, — all walking in single file, for the path was a 
mere foot-track. The ascent was very steep, and they had not 
proceeded far before Mrs. Jeremy, panting with heat and fatigue, 
stopped short, and declared her inability to reach the top; she 
would not have thought of coming, if she had known what a hor- 
rid hard hill she had got to climb. Encouraged and assisted 
however, by her husband and Gertrude, she was induced to make 
n further attempt ; and they had gone on some distance whea 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


34 * 


*9 l 

Gertrude, who happened for a moment to be some steps in advance, 
heard Mrs. Jeremy give a slight scream. She looked back, 
the doctor was laughing heartily, but his wife, who was the pic- 
ture of consternation, was endeavoring to pass him and retrace 
her steps down the hill, at the same time calling upon her to 
follow. 

“ What is the matter ? ” asked Gertrude. 

“ Matter ! ” cried Mrs. J eremy ; “ why, this hill is covered with 
rattlesnakes, and here we are all going up to be bitten to death ! ” 

“No such thing, Gerty ! ” said the doctor, still laughing. “ I 
only told her there had been one killed here this summer, and 
now she ’s making it an excuse for turning back.” 

“ I don’t care ! ” said the good-natured lady, half-laughing her 
self, in spite of her fears ; “ if there 's been one, there may b' 
another, and I won’t stay here a minute longer ! I thought it was 
a bad enough place before, and now I ’m going down faster than 
I came up.” 

Finding her determined, the doctor hastened to accompany her, 
calling to Gertrude as he went, however, assuring her there was 
no danger, and begging her to keep on and wait for him at the 
top of the hill, where he would join her after he had left his wife 
in safety at the hotel. Gertrude, therefore, went on alone. For 
the first few rods she looked carefully about her, and thought of 
rattlesnakes ; but the path was so well worn that she felt sure it 
must be often trod and was probably safe, and the beauty of the 
place soon engrossed all her attention. After a few moments spent 
in active climbing, she reached the highest pojnt of ground, and 
found herself once more on an elevated woody platform, from which 
she could look forth as before upon the unbroken sea of clouds. 

She seated herself at the root of an immense pine-tree, removed 
her bonnet, for she was warm from recent exercise, and, as she 
inhaled the refreshing mountain breeze, gave herself up to the 
train of reflection which she had been indulging when disturbed 
by Dr. and Mrs. Jeremy. 

She had sat thus but a moment when a slight rustling noise 
startled her ; she remembered the rattlesnakes, and was springing 
to her feet, but, hearing a low sound, as of some one breathing 


846 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


turned her oyes in the direction from which it came, and saw, 
only a few yards from her, the figure of a man stretched upon the 
ground, apparently asleep. She went towards it with a careful 
step, and before she could see the face the large straw hat, and 
L he long, blanched, wavy hair, betrayed the identity of the in- 
dividual. Mr. Phillips was, or appeared to be, sleeping; his 
head was pillowed upon his arm, his eyes were closed, and his 
attitude denoted perfect repose. Gertrude stood still and looked 
at him. As she did so, his countenance suddenly changed ; the 
peaceful expression gave place to the same unhappy look which 
had at first excited her sympathy. His lips moved, and in his 
dreams he spoke, or rather shouted, “ No ! no ! no ! ” each time 
that he repeated the word pronouncing it with more vehemence 
and emphasis ; then, wildly throwing one arm above his head, he 
let it fall gradually and heavily upon the ground, and, the excite* 
ment subsiding from his face, he uttered the simple words, “ O, 
dear ! ” much as a grieved and tired child might do, as he leans 
his head upon his mother’s knee. 

Gertrude was deeply touched. She forgot that he was a 
Stranger ; she saw only a sufferer. An insect lit upon his fair, 
open forehead ; she leaned over him, brushed away the greedy 
creature, and, as she did so, one of the many tears that filled her 
eyes fell upon his cheek. 

Quietly, then, without motion or warning, he awoke, and looked 
full in the face of the embarrassed girl, who started, and would 
have hastened away, but, leaning on his elbow, he caught her 
hand and detained her. He gazed at her for a moment without 
speaking ; then said, in a grave voice, “ My child, did you shed 
that tear for me ? ” 

She did not reply, except by her eyes, which were still glisten- 
ing with the dew of sympathy. 

“ I believe you did ,” said he, “ and from my heart I bless you ! 
»>ut never again weep for a stranger ; you will have woes enough 
of your own, if you live to be of my age.” 

“ If I had no: had sorrows already,” said Gertrude, “ I should 
not know how to feel for others ; if I had not often wept for my« 
aelf. I ahould not weep now for you.” 


THE LAMPLIGHTEB 


Ml 


But you are happy ? ” 

* Yes.” 

“ Some find it easy to forget the past.” 

“ / have not forgotten it.” 

“ Children’s griefs are trifles, and you are still scarce niore 
than a child.” 

“ I never was a child,” said Gertrude. 

“ Strange girl ! ” soliloquized her companion. “ Will you sit 
down and talk with me a few minutes ? ” 

Gertrude hesitated. 

“ Do not refuse ; I am an old man, and very harmless. Take 
a seat here under this tree, and tell me what you think of the 
prospect.” 

Gertrude smiled inwardly at the idea of his being such an old 
man, and calling her a child ; but, old or young, she had it not in 
her heart to fear him, or refuse his request. She sat down, and he 
seated himself beside her, but did not speak of the prospect, or 
of anything, for a moment or two ; then turning to her abruptly, 
he said, “ So you never were unhappy in your life ? ” 

“ Never ! ” exclaimed Gertrude. “ 0, yes ; often.” 

“ But never long ? ” 

“Yes, I can remember whole years when happiness was a 
thing J had never even dreamed of.” 

“ But comfort came at last. What do you think of those to 
whom it never comes ? ” 

“ I know enough of sorrow to pity and wish to help them.” 

“ What can you do for them ? ” 

“ Hope for them, pray for them ! ” said Gertrude, with a voice 
full of feeling. 

“What if they be past hcpe? — beyond the influence of 
prayer ? ” 

“ There are no such,” said Gertrude, with decision. 

“ Do you see,” said Mr. Phillips, “ this curtain of thick clouds, 
now overshadowing the world ? Even so many a heart is weighed 
down and overshadowed by thick and impenetrable darkness.” 

“But (he light shines brightly above the cl ouds, ” said Ger- 
trude 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


ri'48 


‘ Above ! well, that may be; but what avails it to those wh(* 
see it not T ” 

“ It is sometimes a weary and toilsome road that leads to the 
mountain-top ; but the pilgrim is well repaid for the trouble which 
brings him above the clouds ,” replied Gertrude, with enthusiasm. 

“ Few ever find the road that leads so high,” responded hei 
melancholy companion ; “ and those who do cannot live long in 
so elevated an atmosphere. They must come down from theii 
height, and again dwell among the common herd ; again mingle 
in the warfare with the mean, the base and the cruel ; thicker 
clouds will gather over their heads, and they will be buried in 
redoubled darkness.” 

“ But they have seen the glory ; they know that the light is 
sver burning on high, and will have faith to believe it will pierce 
the gloom at last. See, see ! ” said she, her eyes glowing with 
the fervor with which she spoke, — “ even now the heaviest clouds 
are parting ; the sun will soon light up the valley ! ” 

She pointed, as she spoke, to a wide fissure which was gradually 
disclosing itself, as the hitherto solid mass of clouds separated on 
either side, and then turned to the stranger to see if he observed 
the change ; but, with the same smile upon his unmoved counte- 
nance, he was watching, not the display of nature in the distance, 
but that close at his side. He was gazing with intense interest 
upon the young and ardent worshipper of the beautiful and the 
true ; and, in studying her features arid observing the play of 
her countenance, he seemed so wholly absorbed, that Gertrude — 
believing he was not listening to her words, but had fallen into 
one of his absent moods — ceased speaking, rather abruptly, and 
was turning away, when he said, 

“ Go on, happy child ! Teach me, if you can, to see the world 
tinged with the rosy coloring it wears for you ; teach me to love 
and pity, as you do, that miserable thing called man . I warn 
you that you have a difficult task, but you seem to be very hope* 
fill.” 

“Do you hate the world?” asked Gertrude, with rtra ight-for* 
ward -simplicity. 

Almost,” was Mr. Phillips’ answer. 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


84 & 


i did once” said Gertrude, musingly. 

“ And will again, perhaps,” 

“No, that would be impossible; it has been a good foster* 
mother to its orphan child, and now 1 love it dearly.” 

“ Have they been kind to you ? ” asked he, with eagerness. 
“ Have heartless strangers deserved the love you seem to feel for 
them ? ” 

“ Heartless strangers ! ” exclaimed Gertrude, the tears rushing 
to her eyes. “ 0 sir, I wish you could have known my Uncle 
True, and Emily, dear, blind Emily ! You would think better of 
the world, for their sakes.” 

“ Tell me about them,” said he, in a low, unsteady voice, and 
looking fixedly down into the precipice which yawned at his feet. 

“ There is not much to tell, only that one was old and poor, 
and the other wholly blind ; and yet they made everything rich, 
and bright, and beautiful, to me, a poor, desolate, injured child. * 

“ Injured ! Then you acknowledge that you had previously met 
with wrong and injustice ? ” 

“ I ! ” exclaimed Gertrude ; “my earliest recollections are only 
of want, suffering, and much unkindness.” 

“ And these friends took pity on you ? ” 

“Yes. One became an earthly father to me, and the other 
taught me where to find a heavenly one.” 

“ And ever since then you have been free and light as air, 
without a wish or care in the world ? ” 

“ No, indeed, I did not say so, — I do not mean so,” said Ger- 
trude. “I have had to part from Uncle True, and to give up 
other dear friends, some for years and some forever ; I have had 
many trials, many lonely, solitary hours, and even now am 
oppressed by more than one subject of anxiety and dread.” 

“ How, then, so cheerful and happy ? ” asked Mr. Phillips. 

Gertrude had risen, for she saw Dr. Jeremy approaching, and 
stood with one hand resting upon a solid mass of stone, under 
whose protecting shadow she had been seated. She smiled a 
thoughtful smile at Mr. Phillips’ question ; and after casting her 
eyes a moment into the deep valley beneath her, turned them 
upon him with a look of holy faith, and said, in a ’ow but fervenV 
30 


550 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


tone, “1 see the gulf yawning beneath me, but 1 lean upca th« 
Rock of ages.’ 5 

Gertrude had spoken truly when she said that more than one 
anxiety and dread oppressed her ; for, mingled with a daily 
increasing fear lest the time was fast approaching when Emily 
would be taken from her, she had of late been harassed and 
grieved by the thought that Willie Sullivan, towards whom her 
heart yearned with more than a sister’s love, was fast forgetting 
the friend of his childhood, or, at least, ceasing to regard her 
with the love and tenderness of former years. It was now some 
months since she had received a letter from India ; the last was 
short, and written in a haste which Willie apologized for on the 
score of business cares and duties, and Gertrude was compelled 
unwillingly to admit the chilling presentiment that now that his 
mother and grandfather were no more the ties which bound the 
exile to his native home were sensibly weakened. 

Nothing would have induced her to hint, even to Emily, a sus- 
picion of neglect on Willie’s part ; nothing would have shocked 
her more than hearing such neglect imputed to him by another ; 
but still, in the depths of her own heart, she sometimes mused 
with wonder upon his long silence, and the strange diminution of 
intercourse between herself and him. During several weeks in 
which she had received no tidings she had still continued to 
write as usual, and felt sure that such reminders must have 
reached him by every mail. What, then, but illness or indiffer- 
ence could excuse his never replying to her faithfully despatched 
missives ? She often tried to banish from her mind any self 
questioning upon a subject so involved in uncertainty ; but at 
times a sadness came over her which could only be dispersed by 
turning her thoughts upward with that trusting faith and hope 
which had so often sustained her drooping spirits, and it was from 
one of these soaring reveries that she had turned with pitying 
looks and words to the fellow* sufferer whose moans had escaped 
him even in his dreams. 

Dr. Jeremy’s approach was the signal for hearty congratula- 
tions and good-mornings between himself and Mr. Phillips; the 
doctor began to converse in his animated manner, spoke with 


THE LAMPLXGHTEH. 


351 


hearty delight of the beauty and peacefulness of that bright Sab* 
bath morning in the mountains ; and Mr. Phillips, compelled to 
exert himself, and conceal, if he could not dispel, the gloom which 
weighed upon his mind, talked with an ease, and even playfulness, 
which astonished Gertrude, who walked back to the house silently 
wondering at this strange and inconsistent man. She did not see 
him at breakfast, and at dinner he took a seat at some distance 
from Dr. Jeremy’s party, and merely acknowledged their acquaint- 
ance by a graceful salutation to Gertrude as she left the dining- 
hall. 

Still later in the day, he suddenly made his appearance upon 
the broad piazza where Emily and Gertrude were seated one 
pair of eyes serving, as usual, to paint pictures for the minus of 
both. There had been a thunder-shower, but, as the sun went 
down, and the storm passed away, a brilliant bow, and its almost 
equally brilliant reflection, spanned the horizon, seemingly far 
beneath the height of the mountain -top, and the lights and 
shadows which were playing upon the valley and its shining river 
were brilliant and beautiful in the extreme. Gertrude hoped Mr. 
Phillips would join them ; she knew that Emily would be charmed 
with his rich and varied conversation, and felt an instinctive hope 
that the sweet tones of the comfort-carrying voice which so many 
loved and blessed would speak to his heart a lesson of peace. 
But she hoped in vain ; he started on seeing them, walked hastily 
away, and Gertrude soon after espied him toiling up the same 
steep path which had attracted them both in the morning, — - uoi 
did he make his appearance at the hotel again that night. 

The Jeremys stayed two days longer at the Mountain House ; 
the invigorating air benefited Emily, who appeared stronger than 
she had done for weeks past, and was abl<i to take many a little 
stroll in the neighborhood of the house. 

Gertrude was never weary of the glorious prospect, upon which 
she gazed with ever increasing delight ; and an excursion which 
sne and the doctor made on foot to the cleft in the heart of the 
mountain, where a narrow stream leaps a distance of two hundred 
feet into the valley below, furnished the theme for many a 
descriptive revery, of which Emily reaped a part of tho enjoy* 


352 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


ment. They saw n more of their new acquaintance, who had 
disappeared without their knowledge. Dr. J eremy inquired of 
their host concerning him, and learned that he left at an early 
hour on Monday, and took up a pedestrian course down the 
mountain. 

The doctor was surprised and disappointed, for he liked Mr. 
Phillips exceedingly, and had flattered himself, from some par- 
ticular inquiries he had made concerning their proposed route, 
taat he had an idea of attaching himself to their party. 

“ Never mind, Gerty,” said he, in a tone of mock condolence. 
4 1 daresay we shall come across him yet, some time when we 
least expect it, 5 



CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Led by simplicity divine. 

She pleased, and never tried to shine. 

Hannah Mo a a. 

From Catsidll Dr. Jeremy proceeded directly to Saratoga. 
The place was crowded with visitors, for the season was at ite 
height, and the improvident traveller having neglected to secure 
rooms, they had no right to expect any accommodation. 

“ Where do you propose stopping ? ” inquired an acquaintance 
of the doctor’s, whom they accidentally encountered in the cars. 

“ At Congress Hall,” was the reply. “ It will be a quiet 
place for us old folks, and more agreeable than any other house 
to Miss Graham, who is an invalid.” 

“ You are expected, I conclude ? ” 

“ Expected ? — No ; who should be expecting us ? ” 

“ Your landlord. If you have not engaged rooms you will 
fare badly, for every hotel is crowded to overflowing.” 

“We must take our chance, then,” said the doctor, with an 
indifference of manner which wholly forsook him upon his 
fairly arriving at his destination, and learning that his friend’s 
words were true. 

“ I don’t know what we are going to do,” said he, as he joined 
the ladies, whom he had left for a few moments while he made 
inquiries ; “ they say every house is full ; and, if so, we ’d better 
take the next train of cars and be off, for we can’t sleep in the 
street.” 

“ Carriage, sir ? ” shouted a hackman, leaning over a railing a 
few steps distant, and beckoning to the doctor with all his might, 
while another and still bolder aspirant for employment tapped hi* 
80 * 


854 


THE LAMPLIGHTEK. 


shoulder, and made a similar suggestion, in i most insinuating 
tone of voice. 

“ Carriage 1 ” repeated the doctor, angrily. “ What for ? where 
WDuld you carry us, for mercy’s sake ? There is n’t a garret to 
be had in your town, for love or money.” 

“ Well sir,” said the la<Jt-mentioned petitioner (a sort of omni- 
bus attache, taking off his cap as he spoke, and wiping his fore- 
head with a torn and soiled pocket-handkerchief), “ the houses is 
pretty considerable full just now, to be sure, but may-be you can 
get colonized out.” 

“ Colonized out ? ” said the doctor, still in a tone of extreme 
vexation. “ That ’s what I think we are already ; what I want is 
to get in somewhere. Where do you usually drive your coach ? ” 
“ To Congress Hall.” 

“ Drive up., then, and let us get in ; and, mind, if they don’t 
take us at Congress Hall, we shall expect you to keep us until 
we find better accommodations.” 

Mrs. Jeremy, Emily and Gertrude, were consequently assisted 
into a small omnibus, and closely packed away among half a 
dozen ladies and children, who, tired, dusty and anxious, were 
schooling themselves to patience, or encouraging themselves with 
hope. The doctor took a seat upon the outside, and the moment 
the vehicle stopped hastened to present himself to the landlord. 
As he had anticipated, there was not a vacant corner in the 
house. Wishing to accommodate him, however, the office-keeper 
announced the possibility that he might be able before night to 
furnish him with one room in a house in the next street. 

“ One room ! in the next street ! ” cried the doctor. “ Ah, 
that ’s being colonized out, is it ? Well, sir, it won’t do for me ; 
I must have a place to put my ladies in at once. Why in con- 
science don’t you have hotels enough for your visitors ? ” 

“ It is the height of the season, sir, and — ” 

“ Why, Dr. Jeremy ! ” exclaimed the youthful voice of Netta 
Gryseworth, who was passing through the hall with her grand- 
mother, “ how do you do, sir ? Are Miss Graham and Miss Flint 
with you ? Have you come to stay ? ” 

Before the doctor could answer her questions, and pay hfa 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


35b 


respects to Madam Gryseworth, a venerable old lady, whom he 
had known thirty years before, the landlord of the hotel accosted 

him. 

“ Dr. J eremy ? ” said he. “ Excuse me, I did not know you. 
Dr. Jeremy, of Boston ? ” 

“ The same,” said the doctor, bowing. 

“ Ah ! we are all right, then. Your rooms are reserved, and 
will be made ready in a few minutes ; they were vacated two 
days ago, and have not been occupied since.” 

“ What is all this ? ” exclaimed the honest doctor. “ I engaged 
no rooms.” 

“ A friend did it for you, then, sir ; a fortunate circumstance, 
especially as you have ladies with you. Saratoga is very crowded 
at this season ; there were seven thousand strangers in the town 
yesterday.” 

The doctor thanked his stars and his unknown friend, and 
summoned the ladies to enjoy their good fortune.- 

“Why, now, an’t we lucky?” said Mrs. Jeremy, as she 
glanced round the comfortable room allotted to herself, and then, 
crossing the narrow entry, took a similar survey of Emily’s and 
Gertrude’s apartment. “ After all the talk everybody made, too, 
about the crowd of folks there were here scrambling for places ! ” 

The doctor, who had just come up stairs, having waited to 
give directions concerning his baggage, approached the door in 
time to hear his wife’s last remark, and entering with his finger 
upon his lip, and a mock air of mystery, exclaimed, in a low 
voice, “Hush! hush! don’t say too much about it! We are 
profiting by a glorious mistake on the part of our good landlord. 
These rooms were engaged for somebody, that ’s certain, but not 
for us. However, they can’t do more than turn us out when tno 
right folks come, and until then we have a prospect, I see, of 
very good lodgings.” 

But, if the Jeremy c were not the right folks, the right folk^ 
never 3ame, and, in the course of a week, our party not only 
eeased to be conscious of their precarious footing ir the house, 
>ut even had the presumption to propose, and the good fortune 
o obtain a & 7 orable exchange for Emily to a bed-room uoru 


856 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


the first floor, whijh opened directly into the drawing-room, anj 
saved her the necessity of passing up and down the often crowded 
staircases. 

It was nearly tea-time on the day of their arrival, and Emily 
and Gertrude had just completed their toilet, when there was a 
light rap upon their door. Gertrude hastened to open it, and to 
admit Ellen Gryseworth, who, while she saluted her with southern 
warmth of manner, hesitated at the threshold, saying, “I am 
afraid you will think me an intruder, but Netta told me you had 
arrived, and hearing accidentally from the chambermaid that you 
had the next room to mine, I could not forbear stopping a mo- 
ment as I passed to tell you how very glad I am to see you 
again.” 

Gertrude and Emily expressed their pleasure at the meeting, 
thanked her for her want of ceremony, and urged her to come in 
and remain with them until the gong sounded for tea. She 
availed herself of the invitation, and taking a seat upon the 
nearest trunk, proceeded to inquire concerning their travels and 
Emily’s health since they parted at West Point. 

Among other adventures, Gertrude mentioned their having 
again encountered Mr. Phillips. “ Indeed ! ” said Miss Gryse- 
worth, “ he seems to be a ubiquitous individual. He was in 
Saratoga a day or two ago, and sat opposite to me at our dinner- 
table. but I have not seen him since. Did you become acquainted 
with him, Miss Graham ? ” 

“ I am sorry to say, I did not,” replied Emily ; then, looking 
smilingly at Gertrude, she added, “ Gerty was so anxious for an 
opportunity to introduce me, that I was quite grieved for her dis- 
appointment.” 

“ Then you liked him ! ” said Miss Gryseworth, addressing 
herself to Gertrude, and speaking with great earnestness. 44 1 
knew you would.” 

44 He interested me much,” replied Gertrude. “He is very 
agreeable, very peculiar, and to me rather incomprehensible.” 

44 Non-committal, I see,” said Miss Gryseworth, archly, “i 
nope you will have a chance to make up your mind ; it is more 
than I can do, I corXess for, every time I am in his company, J 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


357 


recognize some new and unexpected trait of character, He 
got so aLgiy with one if the waiters, the day he dined with us in 
New York, that I Was actually frightened. However, I believe 
toy fears were groundless, for he is too much of a gentleman to 
handy words with an inferior, and though his eyes flashed like 
coals of fire, he kept his temper from blazing forth. I will do 
him the justice to say that this great indignation did not spring 
from any neglect he had himself received, but from the man’s 
gross inattention to two dowdy-looking women from the country, 
who had never thought of such a thing as feeing him, and there- 
fore got nothing to eat until everybody else had finished, and 
looked all the time as disappointed and ashamed as if they were 
just out of the State Prison.” 

“ Too bad ! ” exclaimed Gertrude, energetically. “ I don’t 
wonder Mr. Phillips felt provoked with the mercenary fellow. I 
like him for that.” 

“ It was too bad,” said Miss Gryseworth. “ I could n’t help 
pitying them, myself. One of them — a young girl, fresh from the 
churn, who had worn her best white gown on purpose to make 
a figure in the city — looked just ready to burst out crying.” 

“ I hope such instances of neglect are not very common,” said 
Gertrude. “ I am afraid, if they are, Emily and I shall be on 
the crying list, for Dr. Jeremy never will fee the waiters before- 
hand ; he says it is a mean thing, and he should scorn to com- 
mand attention in that way.” 

“ 0, you need have no such fear,” said Miss Gryseworth. 
“ Persons in the least accustomed to hotel life can always com- 
mand a moderate share of attention, especially in so well-regu- 
lated an establishment as this. Grandmamma shares the doctor’s 
views with regard to bargaining for it beforehand, but no one 
ever sees her neglected here. The case which occurred in New 
Y ork was a gross instance of that partiality for which the public 
are partly to blame. The waiters can tell easily enough who 
will endure to be imposed upon, and the embarrassed faces 
of tViB two country ladies, who found so fierce an advocate in 
Mr. Phillips, were alone sufficient to lay them open to any degree 
of neglect.” 


358 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


Anothe ght tap at the door, and this time it was Netta 
Grysewortn. who entered, exclaiming, “ I hear Ellen’s voice, so I 
suppose I may come in. I am provoked,” added she, as she 
kissed Emily’s hand, and shook Gertrude’s with a freedom and 
vivacity which seemed to spring partly from girlish hoydenism 
and partly from high-bred independence of manner, u to think 
that while I have been watching about the drawing-room door" 
for this half-hour, so as to see you the first minute you came in 
Ellen has been sitting here on a trunk, as sociable as all the 
world, enjoying your society, and telling you every bit of the 
news.** 

“ Not every bit, Netta,’* said Ellen ; “ I have left several 
choice little morsels for you.” 

“ Have you told Miss Flint about the Foxes and the Coxes 
that were here yesterday ? — Has she, Miss Flint ? ” 

“ Not a word about them,” said Gertrude. 

“ Nor about the fright we had on board the steamboat ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Nor about Mr. Phillips’ being here ? ” 

“ O, yes ! she told us that.” 

“ Ah, she did ! ” exclaimed .Netta, with an arch look, which 
called up her sister’s blushes. “ And did she tell you how he 
occupied this room, and how we heard him through the thin par- 
tition pacing up and down all night, and how it kept me from 
sleeping, and gave me a terrible headache all the next day ? ” 

“ No, she did not tell me that,” said Gertrude. 

“ You don’t either of you walk all night, do you ? ” asked 
Netta. 

‘ Not often.” 

“ 0, how thankful we ought to be to have you for neighbors ! ’ 
replied Netta. ‘ If that horrible man had staid here and kept 
up that measured tread, there would have been a suicide either 
in his room or ours before many nights.” 

“ Do you think he was ill ? ” inquired Gertrude. 

“ No, indeed,” said Ellen ; “ it was nothing very remarkable 
— not for him, at least, — all his habits are peculiar ; but it kept 
Netta awake an hour or two and made her fidgetty.” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


35 # 


• An hour or two, Ellen ? ” cried Netta, * It was the whole 
night . ” \ 

“My dear sis,’’ said Ellen, “you don’t kaow what a whole 
night is. You never saw one.” 

A little sisterly discussion might have ensued about the length 
of Mr. Phillips’ walk and Netta’s consequent wakefulness, but, 
fortunately, the gong sounded, and Netta flew off to her own 
room to brush out her puffs before tea. 

Saratoga is a queer place. One sees congregated there, at 
the height of the season, delegates from every part of our own 
and from many foreign countries. Fashion’s ladder is trans- 
planted thither, and all its rounds are filled. Beauty, wealth, 
pride and folly, are well represented ; and so too are wit, genius 
and learning. Idleness reigns supreme, and no one, not even 
the most active, busy and industrious citizen of our working land. 
da r es, in this her legitimate province, to dispute her temporary 
sway. Every rank of society, every profession, and almost every 
trade, meet each other on an easy and friendly footing. The 
acknowledged belle, the bearer of an aristocratic name, the owner 
of a well-filled purse, the renowned scholar, artist or poet, have 
all a conspicuous sphere to shine in. There are many counter- 
feits, too. The nobodies at home stand a chance to be considered 
somebodies here ; and the first people of a distant city, accus- 
tomed to consider themselves somebodies, sit in corners and pout 
at suddenly finding themselves nobodies. All come, however, 
from a common motive ; all are in pursuit of amusement, recre- 
ation and rest from labor ; and, in this search after pleasure, a 
friendly and benevolent sentiment for the most part prevails. 
All are in motion, and the throngs of well-dressed people moving 
to and fro, on foot, on horseback, and in carriages, together with 
the gay assemblages crowded upon the piazzas of the hotels, con- 
stitute a lively and festive scene ; and he who loves to observe 
human nature may study it here in its most animated form. 

It was a wholly new experience to G ertrude ; and although, 
in the comparative retirement and privacy of Congress Hall, she 
saw only the reflection of Saratoga gayety, and heard only the 
echo of its distant hum. there was enough of novelty and excite- 


860 


THE Li M PLIGHTETU 


ment to entertain, amuse and surprise one who was a complete 
novice in the ways of fashionable life. In the circle of high-bred, 
polished, literary and talented persons whom Madam Gryseworth 
drew about her, and into which Dr. Jeremy’s party were at once 
admitted as honored members, Gertrude found much that was 
congenial to her cultivated and superior taste, and she herself 
soon came to be appreciated and admired as she deserved. 
Madam Gryseworth was a lady of the old school, — one who had 
all her life been accustomed to the best society, and who con- 
tinued, in spite of her advanced years, to enjoy and to adorn it. 
She was still an elegant-looking woman, tall and stately ; and, 
though a little proud, and to strangers a little reserved, she soon 
proved herself an agreeable companion to people of all ages. 
For the first day or two of their acquaintance, poor Mrs. Jeremy 
stood much in awe of her, and could not feel quite at ease in hex 
presence ; but this feeling wore off wonderfully quick, and the 
stout little doctor’s lady soon became exceedingly confiding and 
chatty towards the august dame. 

One evening, when the J eremys had now been a week at Sara- 
toga, as Emily and Gertrude were leaving the tea-table, they 
were joined by Netta Gryseworth, who, linking her arm in Ger- 
trude’s, exclaimed, in her usual gay manner, “Gertrude, I shall 
quarrel with you soon ! ” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Gertrude, “ on what ground ? ” 

“ Jealousy.” 

Gertrude blushed slightly. 

“ 0 ! you need n’t turn so red ; it is not on account of any 
gray -headed gentleman’s staring at you all dinner-time, from the 
other end of the table. No ; I ’m indifferent on that score. 
Ellen and you may disagree about Mr. Phillips’ attentions, but 
I ’m jealous of those of another person.” 

“ I hope Gertrude isn’t interfering with your happiness in any 
way,” said Emily, smiling. 

“ She is, though,” replied Netta, “ my happiness, my pride, my 
comfort. She is undermining them all ; she would not dare to 
conduct so, Miss Graham, if you could see her behavior,” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


361 


•' Tell me all about it,” said Emily, coaxingly, “and I will prom- 
ise lo interest myself for you.” 

‘I doubt that,” answered Netta ; “I am not sure but you are 
a coadjutor with her. However, I will state my grievance. Do 
you not see how entirely she engrosses the attention of an import- 
ant peisonage ? Are you not aware that Peter has ceased to have 
eyes for any one else ? For my own part, I can get nothing to eat 
or drink untL Miss Flint is served, and I ’m determined to ask 
papa to change our seats at the table. It ism’t that I care about 
my food ; but I feel insulted, — my pride is essentially wounded. 
A few days ago, I was a great favorite with Peter, and all my pet 
dishes were sure to be placed directly in front of me ; but now the 
tune is changed, and, this very evening, I saw him pass Gertrude 
the blackberries, which the creature knows I delight in, w'hile he 
pushed a dish of blues towards me in a contemptuous manner, 
which seemed to imply, ‘ Blueberries are good enough for you, 
miss ! ’ ” 

“ I have noticed that the waiters are very attentive to us,” 
said Emily ; “ do you suppose Gertrude has been secretly brib- 
ing them ? ” 

“ She says not,” replied Netta. “ Did n’t you tell me so yester- 
day, Gertrude, when I was drawing a similar comparison between 
their devotion to you and to our party ? Did n’t you tell me that 
neither the doctor nor any of you ever gave Peter a cent ? ” 

“ Certainly,” answered Gertrude ; “ his attentions are all vol- 
untary ; but I attribute them entirely to Emily’s influence, anc 
his desire to serve her.” 

“ It ’s no such thing ! ” said Netta, emphasizing her remark by 
a mysterious little shake of the head ; — “ it ’s sorcery, I ’m 
sure of it ; you ’ve been practising the black art, Gertrude, and 
[ ’ll warn Peter this very day.” 

As she spoke, they reached a corner of the drawing-room 
where the old ladies Gryseworth and J eremy were sitting upon a 
sofa, engaged in earnest conversation, while Ellen, who had just 
returned from a drive with her father, d talking with him and 
a Mr. Petrancourt, who had lhat evening arrived from New 
York. 


862 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


The ladies on the sofa made room for Emily, and Netta and 
Gertrude seated themselves near by. Occasionally Madam 
Gryseworth cast glances of annoyance at a group of children on 
the other side of the room, who by their noisy shouts continually 
interrupted her remarks, and prevented her understanding those 
of her neighbor. Gertrude’s attention soon became attracted by 
them also to such a degree that she did not hear more than half 
of the lively and gay sallies of wit and nonsense which Netta con- 
tinued to pour forth. 

“ Do go and play with those children, Gertrude,” said Netta, 
at last ; “ I know you ’re longing to.” 

“ I ’m longing to stop their play ! ” exclaimed Gertrude ; an 
apparently ill-natured remark, which we are bound to explain. 
Some half-dozen gayly and fancifully-dressed children, whose 
mothers were scattered about on the piazzas, and whose nurses 
were at supper, had collected around a strange little new-comer, 
whom they were subjecting to every species of persecution. Her 
clothes, though of rich material, were most untidily arranged, and 
appeared somewhat soiled by travelling. Her little black silk 
frock (for the child was clad in mourning) seemed to be quite 
outgrown, being much shorter than some of her other garments, 
and her whole appearance denoted great negligence on the part 
of her parents or guardian. When Madam Gryseworth ’s evi- 
dent disturbance first led Gertrude to notice the youthful group, 
this little girl was standing in their midst, looking wildly about 
her, as if for a chance to escape ; but this the children prevented, 
and continued to ply her with questions, each of which called 
forth a derisive shout from all but the poor little object of attack, 
jriio, on her part, looked ready to burst into tears. Whether the 
cene reminded Gertrude of some of her own experiences, or 
merely touched the chord of a universal spirit of sympathy for 
the injured, she could not keep her eyes from the little party ; and, 
just as Netta was fairly launched upon one of her favorite topics, 
— namely, Mr. Phillips and his unaccountable conduct, — she 
sprung from her seat, exclaiming, “ They shan’t torment that chili/ 
so ! ” and hastily crossed the room to the rescue. 

Netta burst into a hearty laugh at Gertrude’s excited and entbu 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


363 


Mastic maimer of starting on her benevolent errand , and this, 
together with the unusual circumstance of her crossing the large 
and crowded room hastily and alone, drew the inquiries of all the 
circle whom she had left, and during her absence she unconsciously 
became the subject of discussion and remark. 

“ What is the matter, Netta ? ” aske^. Madam Gryseworth. 
4 Where has Gertrude gone ? ” 

“ To offer herself as a champion, grandmamma, for that little 
rowdy-dowdy looking child,” 

“ Is she the one who has been making all this noise ? ” 

“ No, indeed, but I believe she is the cause of it.” 

“ It is n’t every girl,” remarked Ellen, “ who could cross a 
great room like this so gracefully as Gertrude can.” 

44 She has a remarkably good figure,” said Madam Gryseworth, 
4 and knows how to walk ; a very rare accomplishment, now-a-days.” 

44 She is a very well-formed girl,” remarked Dr. Gryseworth, 
tfho had observed Gertrude attentively as she crossed the room, 
and now, hearing her commented upon, turned to take his part in 
the criticism ; “ but the true secret of her looking so completely 
the lady lies in her having uncommon dignity of character, being 
wholly unconscious of observation and independent of the wish to 
attract it, and therefore simply acting herself. She dresses well, 
too ; — Ellen, I wish you would imitate Miss Flint’s style of dress ; 
nothing could be in better taste.” 

44 Or a greater saving to your purse, papa,” whispered Netta, 
4 Gertrude dresses very simply.” 

44 Miss Flint’s style of dress would not become Miss Gryse- 
worth,” said the fashionable Mrs. Petrancourt/ who approached in 
ime to hear the doctor’s remark. 44 Your daughter, sir, is a noble, 
showy-looking girl, and can carry off a great deal of dress.” 

44 So can a milliner’s doll, Mrs. Petrancourt. However, I sup- 
pose, in a certain sense, you are right. The two girls are not 
sufficiently alike to resemble each other, if their dresses were 
matched with Chinese exactness.” 

44 It esemble each other ! — You surely would not wish to see 
your beautiful daughter the counterpart of one who has not half 
her attractions.” 


8G4 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


4t Are yc i much acquainted with Miss Flint 2 ” 

“ Not at all ; but Netta pointed her out to me at the tea table 
is being a particular friend.’ , 

“ Then you must excuse me, ma’am, if I remark that it is 
Impossible you should have any idea of her attractions, as they 
sertainly lo not lie on the surface.” 

You 3onfess, then, that you do not think her handsome, sir ?” 

“ To tell the truth, I never thought anything about it. Ask 
Petrancourt ; he is an acknowledged judge and the doctor bowed 
in a flattering manner to the lady, who had been the belle of the 
season at the time her husband paid his addresses to her. 

“ I will, when I can get a chance ; but he is standing too near 
the blind lady, — Miss Flint’s aunt, is she not ? ” 

“ Particular friend ; not her aunt.” 

This conversation had been carried on in a low voice, that 
Emily might not hear it. Others, however, were either more 
careless or more indifferent to her presence ; for Madam Gryse* 
worth began to speak of Gertrude without restraint, and she wan 
at this moment saying, “ One must see her under peculiar circum- 
stances to be struck with her beauty at once ; — for instance, as I 
did yesterday, when she had just returned from horseback-riding, 
and her face was in a glow from exercise and excitement ; or as 
she looks when animated by her intense interest in some glowing 
and eloquent speaker, or when her feelings are suddenly touched, 
and the tears start into her eyes, and her whole soul shines out 
hrough them ! ” 

“ Why, grandmamma ! ” cried Netta, “ you are really elo- 
quent ! ” 

“ So is Gertrude, at such times as those I speak of. 0 ! she 
is a girl after my own heart.” 

“ She must be a very agreeable young lady, from your account,” 
said Mr. Petrancourt. “ We must know her.” 

“ You will not find her at all the same stamp as most of the agree- 
able young ladies whom you meet in the gay circles. I must tell 
you. what Horace Willard said of her. He is an accomplished 
man and a scholar, — his opinion is worth something. He had 
been staying a fortnight at the United States Hotel , and used to 


THE LAMPLIGHTETt. 


865 


call here occasionally, to see us. The day he left, he came to me 
anu said, ‘ Where is Miss Flint ? I must have one more refresh- 
ing conversation with her before I go. It is a perfect rest to be 
in that young lady’s society, for she never seems to be making the 
least effort to talk with me, or to expect any attempt on my part ; 
she is one of the few girls who never speak unless they have some- 
thing to say.’ — How she has contrived to quiet those children ! ” 

Mr. Petrancourt followed the direction of Madam Gryseworth’s 
eyes. “ Is that the young lady you are speaking of? ” asked ho. 

“ The one with great, dark eyes, and such a splendid head of hair ? 

T have been noticing her for some time.” 

“ Yes, that is she, talking to the little girl in black.” 

“ Madam Gryseworth,” said Dr. Jeremy, through the long, 
open window, and stepping inside as he spoke, “I see you appre- 
ciate our Gerty ; I did not say too much in praise of her good 
sense, did I ? ” 

“ Not half enough, doctor ; she is a very bright girl, and a 
very good one, I believe.” 

“ Good ! ” exclaimed the doctor ; “I did n’t know that goodness 
counted in these places ; but, if goodness is worth speaking of, I 
should like to tell you a little of what I know of that girl ; ” — 
and, without going closely into particulars, he commenced dilating 
enthusiastically upon Gertrude’s noble and disinterested conduct 
under trying circumstances, and, warming with his subject, had 
recounted, in a touching manner, her devotion to one old paralytic, 
— to another infirm, imbecile and ill-tempered old man and his 
slowly-declining daughter, — and would have proceeded, perhaps, to 
speak of her recent self-sacrificing labors in Emily’s service ; but 
Miss Graham touched his arm, spoke in a low voice, and inter - 
rupted him. 

He stopped abruptly. “ Emily, my dear ” said he, ‘‘I beg 
your pardon ; I did n’t know you were here ; bat what you say is 
very true. Gertrude is a private character, and I have no right 
to bring her before the public. I am an old fool, certainly ; but 
there, we are all friends.” And he looked around the circle a * 
little anxiously, cast a slightly suspicious glance at the Petra: i- 
courts,and finall} rested his gaze upon a figure direct’y behind Ellen 
31 * 


366 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


Gryseworth. The latter turned, not having been previously aware 
that any stranger was in the neighborhood, and, tc her surprise, 
found herself face to face with Mr. Phillips ! 

“ Good-evening, sir,” said she, on recognizing him ; but he did 
not seem to hear her. Madam Gryseworth, who had never seen 
him before, looked up inquiringly. 

“ Mr. Phillips,” said Ellen, “ shall I make you acquainted with 
Mrs. Gryseworth, my — ” But, before she could complete the 
introduction, he had darted quickly through the window, and was 
walking across the piazza with hasty strides. He drew forth his 
handkerchief, wiped the moisture from his brow, and unseen and 
unsuspected, brushed away a tear. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 


It was not thus in other days we met : 

Hath time, hath absence, taught thee to forget * 

Mrs Hemang. 

Lates in the evening, when Gertrude, having resigned her lit* 
tie charge to the nurse who came to seek her, had again joined 
her party, the attention of every one assembled in the drawing- 
room was attracted by the entrance of a beautiful and showily- 
dreSsed young lady, attended by two or three gentlemen. After 
glancing round the room for the person whom she came to seek, 
she advanced towards Mrs. Petrancourt, who, on her part, rose to 
receive her young visitor. Unexpected as the meeting was to 
Gertrude, she at once recognized Isabel Clinton, who, however, 
passed both her and Emily without observing them, and, there 
being no vacant chair near at hand, seated herself with Mrs. 
Petrancourt on a couch a little further up the room, and entered 
into earnest and familiar conversation ; nor did she change her 
position or look in the direction of Dr. Jeremy’s party, until just 
as she was taking her leave. She would have passed them then 
without noticing their presence, but accidentally hearing Dr. Gryse- 
worth address Miss Flint by name, she half turned, caught Ger- 
trude’s eye, spoke a careless “ How do you do,” with that sort of 
indifference with which one salutes a very slight acquaintance, cast 
a look back at Emily, surveyed with an impertinent air of curios- 
ity the rest of the circle to which they belonged, and, without 
stopping to exchange words or inquiries, walked off whispering to 
her companions some satirical comments both upon the place and 
the company. 

“ O, what a beauty exclaimed Netta to Mrs Petrancourt 
' Who is she ? 


368 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


Mrs. Petraneourt related what she knew of Miss Clinton ; tew 
how she had travelled with her in Switzerland, and met her 
afterwards in Paris, where she was universally admired ; then, 
turning to Gertrude, she remarked, “ You are acquainted with 
her, I see, Miss Flint.” 

Gertrude replied that she knew her before she went abroad, but 
had seen nothing of her since her return. 

“ She has but just arrived,” said Mrs. Petraneourt; “ she came 
with her father in the last steamer, and has been in Saratoga but 
a day or two. She is making a great sensation at the United 
States, I hear, and has troops of beaux.” 

“ Most of whom are probably aware,” remarked Mr. Petran* 
court, “ that she will have plenty of money one of these days.” 

Emily’s attention was by this time attracted. She had been 
conversing with Ellen Gryseworth, but now turned to ask Ger- 
trude if they were speaking of Isabel Clinton. 

“ Yes,” said Dr. Jeremy, taking upon himself to reply, “and 
if she were not the rudest girl in the world, my dear, you would 
not have remained so long in ignorance of her having been here.” 

Emily forbore to make any comment. It did not surprise her 
to hear that the Clintons had returned home, as they had separ- 
ated from the Grahams soon after the latter went abroad, and she 
had since heard nothing of their movements ; nor was she aston- 
ished at any degree of incivility from one who sometimes seemec 
ignorant of the most common rules of politeness. Gertrude wan 
silent also ; but she burned inwardly, as she always did, at any 
slights being offered to the gentle Emily. 

Gertrude and Dr. Jeremy were always among the earliest 
morning visitors at the spring. The doctor enjoyed drinking the 
water at this hour ; and, as Gertrude was an early riser and fond 
of walking before breakfast, he made it a point that she should 
accompany him, partake of the beverage of which be was him- 
self so fond, and afterwards join him in brisk pedestrian exercise 
until near the hour of the morning meal, which was as early as 
Mrs. Jeremy or Emily cared to have their slumbers disturbed. 

On the morning succeeding the evening of which we have been 
speaking they had as usual presented themselves At spring 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


869 


Goi-trude had gratified the doctor, and made a martyr of herself 
by imbibing a tumbler-full of a water which She found very un 
palatable ; and he having quaffed his seventh glass, they had 
both proceeded some distance on one more walk around the 
grounds, when he suddenly missed his cane, and, believing that 
he had left it at the spring, declared his intention to return and 
look for it. 

Gertrude would have gone back also, but, as there might be 
some difficulty and delay in recovering it, he insisted upon her 
continuing her walk in the direction of the circular railway, 
promising to come round the other way and meet her. She had 
proceeded some little distance, and was walking thoughtfully 
along, when, at an abrupt winding in the path, she observed a 
couple approaching her, — a young lady leaning on the arm of a 
gentleman. A straw hat partly concealed the face of the latter, 
but in the former she ^t once recognized Belle Clinton. It was 
equally evident, too, that Belle saw Gertrude, and knew her, but 
did not mean to acknowledge her acquaintance ; for, after the 
first glance, she kept her eyes obstinately fixed either upon hei 
companion or the ground. This conduct did not disturb Ger- 
trude in the least ; Belle could not feel more indifferent about 
the acquaintance than she did ; but, being thus saved the neces- 
sity of awaiting and returning any salutation from that quarter, 
she naturally bestowed her passing glance upon the gentleman 
who accompanied Miss Clinton. He looked up at the same in- 
stant, fixed his full gray eyes upon her, with merely that careless 
look, however, with which one stranger regards another, then, 
turning as carelessly away, made some slight remark to his com- 
panion. 

They pass on. They have gone some steps, — but Gertrude 
stands fixed to the spot. She feels a great throbbing at her heart. 
She knows that look, that voice, as well as if she had seen and 
heard them yesterday. Could Gertrude forget Willie Sullivan ? 

B:t he has forgotten her. Shall she run after him, and stop 
him, and catch both his hands in hers, and compel him to see, and 
know, and speak to her ? She started one step forward in the 
direction he had taken then suddenly paused and hesitated A. 


370 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


crowd of emotions choked, blinded, suffocated her, and while she 
wrestled with them and they with her, he turned the corner and 
passed out of sight. She covered her face with her hands (al 
ways her first impulse in moments of distress), and leaned against 
a tree. 

It was Willie. There was no doubt of that ; but not her 
Willie, — the boy Willie. It was true, time had added but little 
to his height or breadth of figure, for he was a well-grown youth 
when he went away. But six years of Eastern life, including no 
small amount of travel, care, exposure and suffering, had done 
the work that twice that time would ordinarily have accom- 
plished. 

The fresh complexion of the boy had given place to the paler 
bea/d-darkened and somewhat sun-browned tints that mark a 
ripened manhood ; the joyous eye had a deeper cast of thought 
the elastic step a more firm and measured tread ; while the beam- 
ing, sunny expression of countenance had given place to a certain 
grave and composed look, which marked his features when in 
repose. 

The winning attractiveness of the boy, however, had but given 
place to equal, if not superior qualities in the man, who was still 
eminently handsome, and gifted with that inborn and natural 
grace and ease of deportment which win universal remark and 
commendation. The broad, open forehead, the lines of mild but 
firm decision about the mouth, the frank, fearless manner, were as 
marked as ever, and were alone sufficient to betray his identity to 
one upon whose memory these, and all his other characteristics 
were indelibly stamped ; and Gertrude needed not the sound of 
bis well-known voice, though that, too, at the same moment fell 
upon her ear, to proclaim at once to her beating heart that Willio 
Sullivan had met her face to face, had passed on, and that she 
was left alone, unrecognized, unknown, and, to all appearance, 
unthought of and uncared for ! 

Eor a time, this bitter thought, “ He does not know me.” was 
alone present to her mind ; it filled and engrossed her entire im. 
agination, and sent a thrill of surprise and agony through hei 
whole frame. She did not stop to reflect upon the fact that she 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


37 i 


i?a& but a child when she parted from him, and that the change in 
her appearance must be immense. Far less did it occur to her 
to congratulate herself upon a transformation every shade of 
which had been to her a proportionate improvement and advan- 
tage. The one painful idea, that she was forgotten and lost, as 
it were, to the dear friend of her childhood, obliterated every 
other recollection. Had they both been children, as in the 
earlier days of their brother and sister hood, it would have been 
easy, and but natural, to dart forward, overtake, and claim him. 
But time, in the changes it had wrought, had built up a huge 
barrier between them. Gertrude was a woman now, with all a 
woman’s pride ; and delicacy and maiden modesty deterred her 
from the course which impulse and old affection prompted. 
Other feelings, too, soon crowded into her mind, in confused and 
mingled array. Why was Willie here, and with Isabel Clinton 
leaning on his arm ? How came he on this side the ocean ? and 
how happened it that’ he had not immediately sought herself, the 
earliest, and, as she had supposed, almost the only friend he had 
left to welcome him back to his native land ? Why had he not 
written and warned her of his coming ? How should she account 
for his strange silence, and the still stranger circumstance of his 
hurrying at once to the haunts of fashion, without once visiting 
the city of his birth, and the sister of his adoption ? 

Question after question, and doubt following doubt, rushed into 
her mind so confusedly, that she could not reflect, could not come 
to any conclusion in the matter. She could only feel and weep; 
and, giving way to her overpowering emotion, she burst into a 
flood of tears. 

Poor child! It was so different a meeting from what she 
had imagined and expected ! For the six years that she had been 
growing into womanhood, it had been the dream of her waking 
hours, and had come as a beautifhl though transient reality to 
her happy sleep. He could hardly have presented himself at 
any hour of the da) dr night, scarcely in any disguise, that would 
not have been foreseen and anticipated. He could have used no 
form of greeting that had not already rung in the ears of hei 
fancy * he could bestow upon her no look that would not be 


372 


TILE LAMPLIGHTER. 


familiar. What Willie would say when he first saw her, what 
he would do to express his delight, the questions he would ask, 
the exclamations he would utter and the corresponding replies 
on her part, the happiness of them both (lately sobered and sub- 
due 1 to her imagination by the thought of the dear departed one& 
the^ had both loved so well), — all this had been rehearsed by 
Gertrude again and again, in every new instance taking some 
new form, or varied by some additional circumstance. 

But, among all her visions, there had been none which in the 
least approached the reality of this painful experience that had 
suddenly plunged her into disappointment and sorrow. Her dark- 
est dreams had never pictured a meeting so chilling ; her most 
fearful forebodings (and she had of late had many) had never 
prefigured anything so heart-rending as this seemingly total 
annihilation of all the sweet and cherished relations that had 
subsisted between herself and the long-absent and exiled wan- 
derer. 

No wonder, then, that she forgot the place, the time, every- 
thing but her own overwhelming grief; and that, as she stood 
leaning against the old tree, her chest heaved with sobs too deep 
for utterance, and great tears trickled from her eyes, and between 
the little taper fingers that vainly sought to hide her disturbed 
countenance. 

She was startled from her position by the sound of an approach- 
ing footstep'. Hastily starting forward, without looking in the 
direction from which it came, and throwing a lace veil (which, 
as the day was warm, was the only protection she wore upon her 
head) in such a manner as to hide her face, she wiped away her 
fast-flowing tears, and hastened on, to avoid being overtaken and 
observed by any of the numerous strangers who frequented the 
grounds at this hour. 

Half-blinded, however, by the thick folds of the veil, and her 
sight rendered still dimmer by the tears which continued to fill 
her eyes, she was scarcely conscious of the unsteady course she 
was pursuing, when suddenly a loud, whizzing noise, close to 
her ears, frightened and confused her so that she knew not which 
way to turn ; nor had she time to take a single step ; for, at the 

X 


THE IAMPLIGUTER. 


sn 

same instant, an arm was suddenly flung round ler tfaist, she 
was forcibly lifted from her feet with as much ease and light- 
ness as if she had been a little child, and, before she was conscious 
what was taking place, found herself detained and supported by 
tn 3 same strong arm, while just in front of her a little hand-car 
containing two persons was whirling by at full speed. One step 
more, and she would have reached the track of the miniature rail- 
way, and been exposed to serious, perhaps fatal injury, from the 
rapidly-moving vehicle. Flinging back her veil, she at once per- 
ceived her fortunate escape ; and, being at the same moment 
released from the firm grasp of her rescuer, she turned upon 
him a half-confused, half-grateful face, whose disturbed expres- 
sion was much enhanced by her previous excitement and tears. 

Mr. Phillips — for it was he — looked upon her in the most tender 
and pitying manner. “ Poor child ! ” said he, soothingly, at the 
same time drawing her arm through his, “ you were very much 
frightened. Here, sit down upon this bench ; ” and he would 
have drawn her towards a seat, but she shook her head, and sig- 
nified by a movement her wish to proceed towards the hotel. 
She could not speak ; the kindness of his look and voice only 
served to increase her trouble, and rob her of the power to artic- 
ulate. 

So he walked on in perfect silence, supporting her, however, 
with the greatest care, and bestowing upon her many an anxious 
glance. At last, making a great effort to recover her calmness, 
she partially succeeded, — so much so that he ventured to speak 
f\gain, and asked, “ Did I frighten you ? ” 

“ You ? ” replied she, in a low, and somewhat unsteady voice. 
‘ O, no ! you are very kind.” 

“ I am sorry you are so disturbed,” said he ; “ those little cars 
are troublesome things ; I wish they ’d put a stop to them ” 

“ The car ? ” said Gertrude, in an absent way. “ 0, yes, I 
forgot.” 

“ You are a little nervous, I fear ; can’t you get Dr. Jeremy 
to prescribe for you ? ” * 

“ The doctor ! He wont back for his cane I believe.” 

Mr. Phillips saw that she was bewildered, obtuse he knew fth( 

82 


874 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


uever was; for, within the last few days, his acquaintance *i:r 
her had grcwn and ripened by frequent intercourse. He foi bcre 
any attempt at conversation, and they continued their walk to 
the hotel without another word. Just before leaving her, how- 
ever, he said, in a tone of the deepest interest, as he held her 
hand for a moment at parting, “ Can I do anything for you ? 
Can I help you ? ” 

Gertrude looked up at him. She saw at once, from his coun- 
tenance, that he understood and realized that she was unhappy, 
not nervous. Her eyes thanked him as they again glistened 
behind a shower of tears. “ No, no,” gasped she, “ but you are 
very good ; ” and she hastened into the house, leaving him stand- 
ing for more than a minute in the spot where she had left him, 
gazing at the door by which she had disappeared, as if she were 
still in sight, and he were watching her. 

Gertrude’s first thought, after parting from Mr. Phillips and 
gaining the shelter of the hotel, was, how she might best conceal 
from all her friends, and especially from Miss Graham, anj 
knowledge of the load of grief she was sustaining. That she 
would receive sympathy and comfort from Emily there could 
be no doubt ; but, in proportion as she loved and respected her 
benefactress, did she shrink, with jealous sensitiveness, from any 
disclosure which was calculated to lessen Willie Sullivan in the 
tstimation of one in whose opinion she was anxious that he 
should sustain the high place to which her own praises had 
exalted him. 

The chief knowledge that Emily had of Willie was derived 
from Gertrude, and with a mingled feeling of tenderness for him 
and pride on her own account did the latter dread to disclose the 
fact that he had returned after so many years of absence, that 
she had met him in the public walks of Saratoga, and that he 
had passed her carelessly by. 

The possibility naturally presented itself to her mind that he 
had indeed visited Boston, sought her, and, learning where she 
might be found, had come hither purposely to see her ; nor, on 
calm reflection, did this supposition seem contradicted by his 
failing, en a mere casual glance to recognize her ; for she could 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


875 


not be ignorant or insensible of the vast change which had taken 
place both in her face and figure. But the ray of hope which 
this thought called up was quickly dissipated by the recollection 
of a letter received the previous evening from Mrs. Ellis (now 
acting as housekeeper at Dr. Jeremy’s), which would certainly 
have mentioned the arrival of so important a visitor. There was, 
Uowever, the still further possibility that this arrival might have 
taken place since the date of Mrs. Ellis’ concise epistle, and that 
Willie might have but just reached his destination, and not yet 
nad time to discover her temporary place of abode. Though the 
leisurely manner in which he was escorting Miss Clinton on her 
morning walk seemed to contradict the supposition, Gertrude, 
clinging fondly to this frail hope, and believing that the rest of 
the day would not pass without his presenting himself at the 
hotel, determined to concentrate all her energies in the effort to 
maintain her usual composure, at least until her fears should 
become certainties. 

It was very hard for her to appear as usual, and elude the 
vigilance of the affectionate and careful Emily, who, always 
deeply conscious of her responsibility towards her joiner charge, 
and fearful lest, owing to her blindness, she might mien be an 
insufficient protection to one of so ardent and excitable a tem- 
perament, was keenly alive to every sensation and emotion expe- 
rienced by Gertrude, especially to any fluctuation in her usually 
cheerful spirits. 

And Gertrude’s spirits, even when she had armed herself with 
confidence and hope by the encouraging thought that Willie 
would yet prove faithful to his old friendship, could not but be 
sorely depressed by the consciousness now forced upon her that 
he could no longer be to her as he had once been ; that they could 
never meet on the same footing on which they had parted ; that 
he was a man of the world now, with new relations, new cares, 
new interests; and that she had been deceiving herself, and labor- 
ing under a fond delusion, in cherishing the belief that in their 
case the laws of nature would be suspended, and time have no 
power to alter or modify the nature and extent of their mutual 
affection There was something in the very circumstance cf hci 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


&76 

Grteb meeting him in company with Isabel Clinton which 
to impress her with this conviction. Isabel, of all people, ou€ 
so essentially worldly, and with whom she had so little sympathy 
or congeniality ! True, she was the daughter of Willie’s early 
and generous employer, now the senior partner in the mercantile 
house to which he belonged, and would not only be likely to form 
his acquaintance, but would have an undoubted claim to every 
polite attention he might have it in his power to pay her ; but 
still Gertrude could not but feel a greater sense of estrange- 
ment, a chilling presentiment of sorrow, from seeing him thus 
familiarly associated with one who had invariably treated her 
with scorn and incivility. 

There was but one thing for her to do, however ; to call up all 
her self-command, bring pride even to her aid, and endeavor, in 
any event, to behave with serenity and composure. The very 
fear that one keen and searching pair of eyes had already pene- 
trated her secret so far as to discover that she was afflicted in 
some form or other served to put her still more upon her guard ; 
and she therefore compelled herself to enter the room where 
Emily was awaiting her, bid her a cheerful “ good-morning,” and 
assist, as usual, in the completion of her toilet. Her face still 
bore indications of recent tears ; but that Emily could not see, 
and by breakfast-time even they were effectually removed. 

Now, again, new trials awaited her ; for Dr. Jeremy, accord- 
ing to his promise, had, after recovering the missing cane, gone 
to meet her in the direction agreed upon, and, finding her false 
to her appointment, and nowhere to be found among the grounds, 
was full of inquiries as to the path she had taken, and her 
reasons for giving him the slip. 

Now, for the first time, she recollected the doctor’s promise to 
rejoin her, and the stipulation that she should proceed in the 
path she was then following ; but, having, until these questions 
were put to her, quite forgotten the old gentleman, she was 
unprepared for a reply, blushed, and became very much confused. 
The truth was that when Gertrude heard Mr. Phillips approach- 
ing in the direction she should have taken, she, in her eagerness 

avoid meeting any one, took the contrary path to that she had 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


87 ? 


Dcen pursuing and, after he joined her, retraced hir steps to the 
hotel in the same way she had come, consequently eluding the 
search o: the doctor. 

But, before she could plead any excuse, Netta Gryseworth 
3ame running up, evidently full of pleasantry and fun, and, lean- 
ing over Gertrude’s shoulder, said, in a whisper loud enough to 
he heard by all the little circle, who were being delayed on their 
way to breakfast by the doctor’s demand for an explanation, 
‘ Gertrude, my dear, such affecting partings ought to be private , 
I wonder you allow them to take place directly at the door-step.” 

This remark did not lessen Gertrude’s discomfiture, which 
became extreme on Dr. Jeremy’s catching Netta by the arm, as 
she was about to run off, and insisting upon knowing her mean- 
ing, declaring that he already had suspicions of Gertrude, and 
wanted to know who she had been walking with. 

“ 0, a certain tall young beau of hers, who stood gazing after 
her when she left him, until I began to fear the cruel creature 
had turned him into stone. What did you do to the poor man, 
Gertrude ? ” 

“ Nothing,” replied Gertrude. “ He saved me from being 
thrown down by the little rail -car, and afterwards walked home 
with me.” 

Gertrude answered seriously ; she could have laughed and 
joked with Netta at any other time, but now her heart was too 
heavy. The doctor did not perceive her growing agitation, how- 
ever, and pushed the matter still further. 

“ Quite romantic ! imminent danger ! providential rescue ! 
tete-a-tete walk home, carefully avoiding the old doctor, who 
mighty prove an interruption ! — I understand ! ” 

Poor Gertrude, blushing scarlet and pitiably distressed, tried to 
offer some explanation, and stammered out, with a faltering voice, 
that she did not notice — she did n’t remember. 

Ellen Gryseworth gave her a scrutinizing glance, — Emily, an 
anxious one, — and Netta, half-pitying half-enjoying her confu- 
sion, dragged her off towards the breakfast-hall, saying, “ Never 
mind, Gertrude; it ’s no such dreadful thing, after all.” 

She made a pretence of eating breakfast, but could not conceal 

32 * 


378 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


her want oi' appetite, and was glad, when Emily had finished hei 
light repa: t, to accompany her to their own room, where, after 
relating circumstantially her escape from accident, and Mr. Phil 
lips’ agency in that escape, she was permitted by her apparently 
satisfied hearer to sit down quietly and read aloud to her in a 
book lent them by that gentleman, to whom, however, owing to 
unfriendly fortune, no opportunity had ever yet occurred of 
introducing Emily. 

The whole morning passed away, and nothing was heard from 
Willie. Every time a servant passed through the entry, Ger- 
trude was on the tiptoe of expectation ; and on occasion of a tap 
at the door, such as occurred several times before dinner, she 
trembled so that she could hardly lift the latch. There was no 
summons to the parlor, however, and by noon the feverish excite- 
ment of alternate expectation and disappointment had brought a 
deep flush into her face, and she experienced, what was very 
unusual, symptoms of a severe headache. Conscious, however, 
of the wrong construction which would be sure to be put upon 
her conduct, if, upon any plea whatever, she on this day absented 
herself from the dinner-table, she made the effort to dress with 
as much care as usual ; and, as she passed up the hall to her seat, 
it was not strange that, though suffering herself, the rich glow 
that mantled her cheeks, and the brilliancy which excitement had 
given to her dark eyes, attracted the notice of others beside Mr. 
Phillips, who, seated at some distance, continued, during the 
short time that he remained at the table, to observe her atten 
fcivaly. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


O’er the wrung heart, from midnight’s breathless gky. 

Lone looks the pity of the Eternal Eye. 

New Timok. 

When Gertrude went to her room after dinner, which she did 
a* soon as she had seen Emily comfortably established in the 
drawing-room in conversation with Madam Gryseworth, she 
found there a beautiful bouquet of the choicest flowers, which 
the chamber-maid assured her she had been commissioned to 
deliver to herself. She rightly imagined the source from whence 
they came, divined at once the motives of kindness and sympathy 
which had prompted the donor of so sweet and acceptable a gift, 
and felt that, if she must accept pity from any quarter, Mr. Phil- 
lips was one from whom she could more easily bear to receive it 
than from almost any other. 

Notwithstanding Netta’s intimations, she did not for a moment 
suspect that any other motives than those of kindness and com- 
passion had instigated the offering of the beautiful flowers. Nor 
had she reason to do so ; Mr. Phillips’ manner towards her was 
rather fatherly than lover-like, and though she began to look 
upon him as a valuable friend, that was the only light in which 
she had ever thought of viewing him, or believed that he ever 
regarded her. She placed the flowers in water, returned to 
the parlor, and constrained herself to talk on indifferent subjects, 
until she was happily relieved by the breaking up of their circle, 
part to ride on horseback, part to take a drive, and the rest a 
nap. Among these last was Gertrude, who availed herself of 
her headache as an excuse to Emily for this unwonted ; ndulgen<?« 
But she could not sleep, and the day wore wearily on. 


380 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


Evening came at last, and with it an urgent invitation to Uer- 
trude to accompany Dr. Gryseworth, his daughters, and the 
Petran courts, to a concert to be given at the United States Hotel. 
This she declined doing, and persisted in her refusal, in spite of 
every endeavor to shake her resolution. She felt that it would 
be impossible for her to undergo another such encounter as that 
of the morning, — she should be sure to betray herself; and 
now that -the whole day had passed, and Willie had made no 
attempt to see her, she felt that she would not, for the world- 
put herself in his way, and run the risk of being discoV' 
ored and recognized by him in a crowded concert-room. No, — 
she would wait; she should see him soon, at the latest, and 
under the present circumstances she should not know how to 
meet him ; she would preserve her incognito a little longer. 

So they all went without her, and many others from their hotel ; 
and the parlor, being half-deserted, was very quiet, — a great relief 
to Gertrude’s aching head and troubled mind. Later in the even- 
ing, an elderly man, a clergyman, had been introduced to Emily, 
and was talking with her ; Madam G ryseworth and Dr. J eremy 
were entertaining each other, Mrs. Jeremy was nodding, and Ger- 
trude, believing that she should not be missed, was gliding out of 
the room to go and sit a while by herself in the moonlight, when 
she met Mr. Phillips in the hall. 

“ What are you here all alone for ? ” asked he. “ Why did n’t 
you go to the concert ? ” 

“ I have a headache.” 

“ I saw you had, at dinner. Is it no better ? ” 

“ No. I believe not.” 

“ Come and walk with me on the piazza a little while. It will 
do you good.” 

She went ; and he talked very entertainingly to her, told her 
a great many amusing anecdotes, succeeded in making her smile 
and even laugh, and seemed very much pleased at having done 
so. He related many amusing things he had seen and heard 
since he had been staying at Saratoga in the character of a spec* 
tat or, and ended by asking her if she did n’t think it was a heart' 
le3S show. 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


88ft 


The question took Gertrude by surprise. Sne asked his mean- 
ing- \ 

“ Don’t you think there is something very ridiculous in so many 
thousand people coming here to enjoy themselves ? ” 

“ I don t know,” answered Gertrude ; “ but it has not seemed 
so to me. I think it ’s an excellent thing for those who do enjoy 
themselves.” 

“ And how many do ? ” 

“ The greater part, I suppose.” 

M Pshaw ! no, they don’t More than half go away miserable, 
and nearly all the rest dissatisfied.” 

“ Do you think so ? Now, I thought the charm of the place 
was seeing so many happy faces ; they have nearly all looked 
happy to me.” 

“ O, that ’s all on the surface, and, if you ’ll notice, those who 
look happy one day are wretched enough the next. Yours was 
one of the happy faces yesterday, but it is n’t to-day, my poor 
child.” 

Then, perceiving that his remark caused the hand which rested 
on his arm to tremble, while the eyes which had been attentively 
raised to his suddenly fell, and hid themselves under their long 
lashes, he continued. “ However, we will trust soon to see it as 
bright as ever. But they should not have brought you here. 
Catskill Mountain was a fitter place for your lively imagination 
and reflecting mind ; a sensitive nature should not be exposed to 
all the shafts of malice, envy and ill-will, it is sure to encounter 
in one of these crowded resorts of selfish, base and cruel hu- 
manity.” 

“ O ! ” exclaimed Gertrude, at once comprehending that Mr. 
Phillips suspected her to be smarting under some neglect, feeling 
of wounded pride, or, perhaps, serious injury; “you speak 
harshly ; all are not selfish, all are not unkind.” 

“ Ah ! you are young, and full of faith ; trust whom you can. 
and as long as you can. I trust va one.” 

“ No one ! Is there none, then in the who!' world whom yov 
love and confi de in \ 


382 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


4t Scarcely 3ertiinly not more than one. Whom should 1 
trust ? ” 

“The good the pure, the truly great.” 

44 And who are they ? How shall we distinguish them ? I tell 
you, my young friend, that in my experience — and it has been 
rich, ay, very rich,” — and he set his teeth and spoke with bitter- 
ness, — “ the so-called good, the honorable, the upright man, has 
proved but the varnished hypocrite, the highly-finished and polished 
sinner. Yes,” continued he, his voice growing deeper, his manner 
more excited as he spoke, 44 1 can think of one, a respectable man, 
one of your first men, yes, and a church-member, whose hardness, 
injustice and cruelty, made my life what it has been — a desert, a 
blank, or worse than that ; and I can think of another, an old, 
rough, intemperate sailor, over whose head a day never passed 
that he did not take the name of his God in vain, who had, never- 
theless, at the bottom of his heart, a drop of such pure, unsullied 
essence of virtue as could not be distilled from the souls of ten 
thousand of your polished rogues. Which, then, shall I trust, 
—the good, religious men, or the low, profane and abject ones?” 

4 Trust in goodness , wherever it be found,” answered Gertrude. 
‘ But, 0, trust aZZ, rather than none” 

44 Your world, your religion, draws a closer line.” 

44 Call it not my world, or my religion,” said Gertrude. 44 1 
know of no such line. I know of no religion but that of the heart 
Christ died for us all alike, and, since few souls arc so sunk in sin 
that they do not retain some spark of virtue and truth, who shall 
say in how many a light will at last spring up, by aid of which 
they may find their way to God ? ” 

44 You are a good child, and full of hope and charity,” said Mr. 
Phillips, pressing her arm closely to his side. 44 1 will try and 
have faith in you . But, see ! our friends have returned from the 
concert. Let us go and meet them.” 

They had had a delightful time ; Alboni had excelled herself 
and they were so sorry Gertrude did not go. 44 But perhaps,” 
whispered Netta, 44 you have enjoyed yourself more at home.,’ 
She half repentei of the sly intimation, even before the words 
had escaped her ; for Gertrude, as she stood leamng unconcernedly 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


388 


upon Mr. Phillips’ arm, looked so innocent of 3onfusi(n or em- 
barrassment, that her very manner refuted Netty’s suspicions. 

“ Miss Clinton was there,” continued Netta, “ and looked beau- 
tifully. She had a crowd of gentlemen about her ; but did n’t 
you notice (and she turned to Mrs. Petrancourt) that one 
seemed to meet with such marked favor that I wonder the rest 
were not discouraged. I mean that tall, handsome young man, 
who waited upon her into the hall, and went out soon after. Sh 
devoted herself to him while he stayed.” 

“ It was the same one, was it not,” asked Ellen, “ who after- 
wards, towards the close of the concert, came in and stood leaning 
against the wall for some minutes ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Netta ; “but he only waited for Alboni tc 
finish singing, and then, approaching Miss Clinton, leaned over and 
whispered a word or two in her ear. After that she got up, left 
her seat, and they both went off, rather to the mortification of the 
other gentlemen. I noticed them pass by the window where we 
sat, and walk across the grounds together.” 

“ Yes, just in the midst of that beautiful piece from Lucia,” 
said Ellen. “ How could they go away ? ” 

“ 0, it is not strange, under the circumstances,” said Mr. 
Petrancourt. “ that Miss Clinton should prefer a walk with Mr. 
Sullivan to the best music in the world.” 

“ Why ? ” asked Netta. “ Is he very agreeable ? Is he sup 
posed to be the favored one ? ” 

“ I should think there was no doubt of it,” answered Mr 
Petrancourt. “ I believe it is generally thought to be an engage- 
ment. He was in Paris with them during the spring, and they 
all came home in the same steamer. Everybody knows it is the 
wish of Mr. Clinton’s heart, and_Miss Isabel makes no secret of 
her preference.” 

“ O, certainly,” interposed Mrs Petrancourt ; “ it is an under- 
stood thing. I heard it spoken of by two or three persons this 
evening.” 

What became of Gertrude, all this time ? Could she, who for 
six years had nursed the fond idea that to Willie she was and 


384 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


should still continue to be, all in all, — could she stand patiently 
by, and hear him thus disposed of and given to another 2 

She did do it ; not consciously, however, for her head swan 
round, and she would have fallen but for the firm support of Mr 
Phillips, who held her arm so tightly that though he frit, th t 
rest could not see, how she trembled. Fortunately, too, none but 
he thought of noticing her blanched face ; and, as she stood some- 
what in the shadow, he alone, fully aware of her agitation, was 
watching the strained and eager eyes, the parted and rigid lips, 
the death-like pallor of her countenance. 

Standing there with her heart beating like a heavy drum, and 
almost believing herself in a horrid dream, she listened attentively, 
heard and comprehended every word. She could not, however 
have spoken or moved for her life, and in an instant more acci- 
dent might have betrayed her excited and almost alarming condi- 
tion. But Mr. Phillips acted, spoke and moved for her, and she 
was spared an exposure from which her delicate and sensitive 
spirit would have shrunk indeed. 

“ Mr. Sullivan ! ” said he. “ Ah ! a fine fellow 1 know him. 
Miss Gertrude, I must tell you an anecdote about that young 
man ; ” and, moving forward in the direction in which they had 
been walking when they met the party from the concert, he made 
as if they were still intending to prolong their promenade, — a 
promenade, however, in which he was the only walker, for Ger- 
trude was literally borne upon his arm, until the rest of the 
company, who started at the same moment for the parlor, were 
hid within its shelter, and he and his companion were left the sole 
occupants of that portion of the piazza. 

Until then he proceeded with his story, and went so far as to 
relate that he and Mr. Sullivan were, a few years previous, trav- 
elling together across an Arabian desert, when the latter proved 
of signal service in saving him from a sudden attack by a wandering 
tribe of Bedouins. By the time he had thus opened his narration, 
he perceived that all danger of observation was passed, and hesitat- 
ed not to stop abruptly, and, without ceremony or apology, place 
her in an arm-chair which stood conveniently near “ Sit here 


1’HE LAMPLIGHTER. 


385 


said he, “ while I go and bring you a glass of water.” He then 
wrapped her mantle tightly about her, and walked quickly away. 

0, how Gertrude thanked him in her heart for thus consider- 
ately leaving her, and giving her time to recover herself! It was 
the most judicious thing he could have done, and the kindest 
He saw that she would not faint, and knew that left alone she 
would soon rally her powers ; perhaps be" deceived by the idea 
that even he was only half aware of her agitation, and wholly 
ignorant of its cause. 

He was gone some minutes, and when he returned she was per- 
fectly calm. She tasted the water, but he did not urge her to 
drink it ; he knew she did not require it. “ I have kept you out 
too long,” said he ; “ come, you had better go in now.” 

She rose ; he put her arm once more through his, guided her 
feeble steps to a window which opened into hers and Emil} s 
room, and then, pausing a moment, said, in a meaning tone, at the 
same time enforcing his words by the fixed glance of his piercing 
eye, “ You exhort me, Miss Gertrude, to have faith in every- 
body ; but I bid you, all inexperienced as you are, to beware lest 
you believe too much. Where you have good foundation for con- 
fidence, abide by it, if you can, firmly and bravely; but trust 
nothing which you have not fairly tested, and, especially, rest as- 
sured that the idle gossip of a place like this is utterly unworthy 
of credit. Good-night.” 

What an utter revulsion of feeling these words occasioned Ger- 
trude ! They came to her with all the force of a prophecy, and 
struck deep into her heart. Was there not wisdom in the stran- 
ger’s counsel ? It was true, she thought, that he spoke merely 
such simple axioms as a long experience of the world might dic- 
tate ; but how forcible, in her case, was their application ! Had 
not she, blindly yielding to her gloomy presentiments and fears, 
been willing to lend a too ready ear to the whisperings of her own 
jealous imagination, and a too credi^ous one to the idle reports of 
others, while in reality she had proved a traitor to a more noble 
trust ? Who, during the many years she had known him, could 
have proved himself more worthy of confidence than Willie * 
Had he not, from his boyhood, been exemplary in e>ery virtue, 
33 


386 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


superior to every meanness and every form of vice ? Had he 
not in nis early youth forsaken all that he held most deir, to toil 
and labor beneath an Indian sun, that he might provide comforts 
and luxuries for those whose support he eagerly took upon him- 
self? Had he not ever proved honorable, high-minded, sincere 
and warm of heart ? Above all, had he not been imbued from 
his infancy with the highest and purest of Christian principles? 

He had, indeed, been all this ; and while Gertrude called it to 
mind, and dwelt upon each phase of his consistent course she 
could not fail to remember, too, that Willie, whether as the gen- 
erous, kind-hearted boy, the adventurous, energetic youth, the 
successful, respected, yet sorrow-tried man, had ever manifested 
towards herself the same deep, ardent, enthusiastic attachment. 
The love which he had shown for her in her childhood, and during 
that period when, though still a child, she labored under the full- 
grown care and sorrow entailed upon her by Uncle True’s sickness 
and death, had seemed to grow and deepen in every successive day, 
month and year, of their separation. 

During their long and regular correspondence, no letter had 
come from Willie that did not breathe the same spirit of devoted 
affection for Gertrude, — an exclusive affection, in which there 
could be no rivalship. All his thoughts of home and future 
happy days were inseparably associated with her ; and although 
Mrs. Sullivan, with that instinctive reserve which was one of her 
characteristics, never broached the subject to Gertrude, her whole 
treatment of the latter sufficiently evinced that to her mind the 
event of her future union with her son was a thing certain. The 
bold declaration on Willie’s part, conveyed in the letter received 
by Gertrude soon after his mother’s death, that his hopes, his 
prayers, his labors, were now all for her, was not a more convinc- 
ing proof of the tender light in which he regarded her than ail 
their previous intercourse had been. 

Should Gertrude, then, distrust him ? Should she at once set 
aside all past evidences of his worth, and give ready credence 
to his prompt desertion of his early friend ? No ! she resolved 
immediately to banish the unworthy thought , to cherish still the 
firm belief that some explanation would shortly offer itself, whicK 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


387 


would yet satisfy her aching heart. Until then, she would trust 
mm ; bravely and firmly too would she trust, for her confidence 
was not without foundation. 

As she made this heroic resolve, she lifted up her drooping 
head and gazed out into the night. The moon had gone down, 
and the sky was studded with stars, bright, clear and beautiful. 
Gertrude loved a starry night. It invigorated and strengthened 
her ; and now, as she looked up, directly above her head stood 
the star she so much loved, — the star which she had once fondly 
fancied it was Uncle True’s blessed privilege to light for her. 
And, as in times long past these heavenly lights had spoken of 
comfort to her soul, she seemed now to hear ringing in her ears 
the familiar saying of the dear old man, “ Cheer up, birdie, for 
I ’m of the ’pinion ’t will all come out right at last.” 

Gertrude continued through the short remainder of the evening 
in an elevated frame of mind, which might almost be termed 
joyful ; and, thus sustained, she was able to go back to the 
drawing-room for Emily, say good-night to her friends with a 
cheerful voice, and before midnight she sought her pillow and 
went quietly to sleep. 

This composed state of mind, however, was partly the result of 
strong excitement, and therefore could not last. The next morn- 
ing found her once more yielding to depressed spirits, and the 
effort which she made to rise, dress and go to breakfast, was 
almost mechanical. She excused herself from her customary 
walk with the doctor, for to that she felt quite unequal. Her 
first wish was to leave Saratoga ; she longed to go home, to be in 
a quiet place, where so many eyes would not be upon her ; and 
when the doctor came in with the letters which had arrived by 
the early mail, she looked at them so eagerly that he observed it, 
and said, smilingly, “ None for you, Gerty ; but one for Emily, 
which is the next best thing, I suppose.” 

To Gertrude this was the very best thing, for it was x long- 
expected letter from Mr. Graham, which would probably mention 
the time of his return from abroad, and consequently determine 

e continuance of her own and Emily’s visit at Saratoga. 

1 ) their astonishment, he had already arrived in New York 


888 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


and deared them to join him there the following da) * Gertrude 
could hardly conceal her satisfaction, which was, however, if 
noticed by her friends, merely attributed to the pleasure she 
probably felt at the return of Mr. and Mrs. Graham ; and EmiV, 
really delighted at the prospect of so soon meeting her father, to 
whom she was fondly attached, was eager to commence prepar- 
ations for leaving. 

They therefore retired to their own room, and Gertrude’s time 
until dinner was fully occupied in the business of packing. 
Throughout the whole of the previous day she had been anxiously 
hoping that Willie would make his appearance at their hotel ; 
now, on the contrary, she as earnestly dreaded such an event. 
To meet him in so public a manner too as must here be inevitable, 
would, under her present state of feelings, be insupportable ; she 
would infinitely prefer to be in Boston when he should first see 
and recognize her ; and, if she tormented herself yesterday with 
the fear that he would not come, the dread that he might do so 
was a still greater cause of distress to her to-day. 

She was therefore relieved when, after dinner, Mr. Phillips 
kindly proposed a drive to the lake. Dr. Gryseworth and one of 
his daughters had, he assured Gertrude, agreed to take seats in a 
carriage which he had provided, and he hoped she would not 
refuse to occupy the fourth. As it was an hour when Emily 
would not require her presence, and she would thus be sure to 
avoid Willie, she gladly consented to the arrangement. 

They had been at the lake nearly an hour. Dr. Grysewerth 
and his daughter Ellen had been persuaded by a party whom 
they met there to engage in bowling. Mr. Phillips and Gertruch 
had declined taking part, but stood for some time looking on. 
The day, however, being warm, and the air in the building 
uncomfortably close, they had gone outside and seated them- 
selves on a bench at a little distance, to wait until the game was 
concluded. As they sat thus, surveying the beautiful sheet of 
water, now rosy red with the rays of the descending sun, a couple 
approached and took up a position near them. Mr. Phillips was 
quite screened from their observation by the trunk ^f a huge 
‘reei and Gertrude sufficiently so to be unnoticed, though the 


T1IE LAMPLIGHTER. 


38? 


was so marked as clearly to indicate that she saw and recog- 
nized William Sullivan and Isabel Clinton. The words which 
they spoke, also, fell distinctly upon her ear. 

“ Shall I, then, be so much missed ? ” asked Isabel, looking 
earnestly in the face of her companion, who, with a serious air, 
was gazing out upon the water. 

“ Missed ! ” replied he, turning towards her, and speaking in 
a slightly reproachful voice. “ How can it be otherwise ? 
Who can supply your place ? ” 

“ But it will be only two days.” 

“A short time, under ordinary circumstances,” said Willie, 
‘ but an eternity — ” He here checked himself, and made a 
udden motion to proceed on their walk. 

Isabel followed him, saying, “ But you will wait here until m^ 
return ? ” 

He again turned to reply, and this time the reproachful loo! 
which overspread his features was visible to Gertrude, as he said 
with great earnestness, “ Certainly ; can you doubt it ? ” 

The strange, fixed, unnatural expression which took possession 
of Gertrude’s countenance as she listened to this conversation, te 
her so deeply fraught with meaning, was fearful to witness. 

“ Gertrude ! ” exclaimed Mr. Phillips, aftei watching her for 
a moment. “ Gertrude, for heaven’s sake do not look so ! Speak, 
Gertrude ! Yi hat is the matter ? ” 

But she did not t’urn her eyes, did not move a feature of that 
stony face ; she evidently did not hear him. He took her hand 
It was cold as marble. His face now wore an appearance of 
distress almost equal to her own ; — great tears rushed to his 
eyes, and rolled down his cheeks. Once he stretched forth his 
arms, as if he would gladly clasp her to his bosom and soothe 
her like a little child, but with evident effort he repressed the 
emotion. “ Gertrude,” said he, at length, leaning forward and 
fixing his eyes full upon hers, “ what have these people done to 
you ? Why do you care for them ? If that young man has injured 
you, — the rascal ! — he shall answer for it ; ” and he sprang ta 
his feet. 


390 


THE LAMHi J.HTER. 


The WDrds and the action brought Gertrude to nerself. ** 2s o 
no ! ” sai i she, “ he is not that. I am better now. Do noi 
speak of it ; don’t tell,” and she looked anxiously in the direction 
of the bowling-alley. “ I am a great deal better.” And, to his 
astonishment , — for the fearful, rigid look upon her face had 
frightened him, — she rose with perfect composure, and proposed 
going home. 

He accompanied her silently, and before they were half-way 
up the hill where they had left the carriage, they were over 
taken by the rest of their party, and, in a few moments, were 
driving towards Saratoga. 

During the whole drive and the evening which followed Ger- 
trude preserved this same rigid, unnatural composure. Once or 
twice before they reached the hotel Dr. Gryseworth asked her 
if she felt ill, and Mr. Phillips turned many an anxious glance 
towards her. The very tones of her voice were constrained, — so 
much so that Emily, on her reaching the house, inquired, at once, 
“ What is the matter, my dear child ? ” 

But she declared herself quite well, and went through all the 
duties and proprieties of the evening, bidding farewell to many 
of her friends, and when she parted from the Gryseworths 
arranging to see them again in the morning. 

To the careless eye, Emily was the more troubled of the two; 
for Emily could not be deceived, and reflected back, in her whole 
demeanor, the better-concealed sufferings of'Gertrude. Gertrude 
.leither knew at the time, nor could afterwards recall, one-half of 
the occurrences of **at evening. She never could understand 
what it was that «*mrtamed her, and enabled her, half uncon- 
sciously, to perform her part in them. How she so successfully 
concealed the misery she was enduring she never could com- 
prehend or explain. She remembered it only as if it had all 
been a dream. 

Not until the still hours of the night, when Emily appeared 
to be soundly sleeping by her side, did she venture for an instant 
to loosen the iron bands of restraint which she had imposed upon 
herself ; but then, the barrier removed, the pent-up torrent of 
her gri^f burst forth without check or hindrance. She rose from 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


391 


aer c?ed, and, burying hei face in the cushions of a low .ouch 
which stood near the winduw, gave herself up to blessed tears, 
wery drop of which was a relief to her aching soul. Since her 
early childhood she had never indulged so long and unrestrained 
a fit of weeping ; and, the heaving of her chest, and the deep 
sobs she uttered, proved the depth of her agony. All other sor- 
rows had found her in a great degree fortified and prepared, 
armed with religious trust and encouraged by a holy hope ; but 
beneath this sudden and unlooked-for blow she bent, staggered 
and shrunk, as the sapling of a summer’s growth heaves and 
trembles beneath the wintry blast. 

That Willie was faithless to his first love she could not now 
feel a shadow of doubt ; and with this conviction she realized 
chat the prop and stay of her life had fallen. Uncle True and 
Mrs. Sullivan were both her benefactors, and Emily was still a 
dear and steadfast friend ; but all of these had been more or less 
dependent upon Gertrude, and, although she could ever repose in 
the assurance of their love, two had long before they passed 
iway come to lean wholly upon her youthful arm, and the other, 
the last one left, not only trusted to her to guide her uncertain 
steps, but those steps were evidently now tending downwards to 
the grave. 

Upon whom, then, should Gertrude lean ? To whom should she 
look as tne staff of her young and inexperienced life ? To whom 
could she, with confidence, turn for counsel, protection, support 
and love ? To whom but Willie ? And Willie had given his 
heart to another, — and Gertrude would soon be left alone ! 

No wonder, then, that she wept as the broken-hearted weep ; 
wept until the fountain of her tears was dry, and she felt herself 
sick, faint and exhausted. And now she rose, approached the 
window, flung back from her forehead the heavy folds of her long 
hair, leaned out, and from the breath of the cool night-breeze 
drank in a refreshing influence. Her soul grew calmer, as, with 
her eyes fixed upon the bright lights which shone so sweetly and 
calmly down, she seemed to commune with holy things. Once 
more th',y seemed to compassionate her, and, as in the days of 
her lone. 7 childhood, to whisper, u Gerty ! — Gerty ! — poor littlf 
Gerty!” 


892 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


Softened and touched by their pitying glance, she gradually 
sunk upon her knees ; her uplifted face, her clasped hands, the 
sweet expression of resignation now gradually creeping over her 
countenance, all gave evidence that, as on the occasion of he: 
first silent prayer to the then unknown God, her now enlightened 
soul was holding deep communion with its Maker, and once more 
her spirit w^ a uttering the simple words, “ Here am I, Lord ! ” 

0, blessed religion which can sustain the heart in such an hour 
as this ! 0, blessed faith and trust, which, when earthly support 

fails us, and our strongest earthly stay proves but a rope of sand, 
lifts the soul above all other need, and clasps it to the bosom of its 
God! 

And now a gentle hand is laid upon her head. She turns and 
sees Emily, whom she had believed to be asleep, but from whom 
anxiety had effectually banished slumber, and who, with fears 
redoubled by the sobs which Gertrude could not wholly repress, 
is standing by her side. 

“ Gertrude,” said she, in a grieved tone, “ are you in trouble, 
and did you seek to hide it from me ? Do not turn from me, 
Gertrude!” and, throwing her arms around her, she drew her head 
dose to her bosom, and whispered, “.Tell me all, my darling ! 
What is the matter with my poor child ? ” 

And Gertrude unburdened her heart to Emily, disclosing to 
her attentive ear the confession of the only secret she had ever 
kept from her ; and Emily wept as she listened, and when Ger- 
trude had finished she pressed her again and again to her heart, 
exclaiming, as she did so, with an excitement of tone and manner 
which Gertrude had never before witnessed in the usually calm 
and placid blind girl, “ Strange, strange, that you, too. should 
be thus doomed ! O, Gertrude, my darling, we may well weep 
together ; but still, believe me, your sorrow is far less bitter than 
mine ! ” 

And then, in the darkness of that midnight hour was Gertrude s 
confidence rewarded by the revelation of that tale of grief and 
woe which twenty years before had blighted Emily’s youth, and 
which, notwithstanding the flight of time, was still vivid to her 
recoil a ction, casting over her life a dark shadow, of which her 
blindness was but a single feature. 


CHAPTER XL. 


When, lo ! arrayed in robes of light, 

A nymph celestial came ; 

She cleared the mists that dimmed my sight — 

Religion was her name. 

She proved the chastisement divine. 

And bade me kiss the rod ; 

She taught this rebel heart of mine 
Submission to its God. Hannah More 

• 

" I was younger than you, Gertrude,” said she, “ when my trW 
came, and hardly the same person in any respect that I have be*#d 
since you first knew me. You are aware, perhaps, that my moth^t 
lied when I was too young to retain any recollection of her; tuai 
my father soon married again, and in this step-parent, whom J 
remember with as much tenderness as if she had been my own 
mother, I found a love and care which fully compensated for my 
loss. I can recall her now as she looked towards the latter part 
of her life, — a tall, delicate, feeble woman, with a very sweet, 
but rather sad face. She was a widow when my father married 
her, and had one son, who became at once my sole companion, 
the partner of all my youthful pleasures. You told me, m*.ny 
years ago, that I could not imagine how much you loved WLlie, 
and I was then on the point of confiding to you a part of my 
early history, and convincing you that my own experience rmght 
well have taught me how to understand such a love ; but I 
checked myself, for you were too young then to be burdened with 
the knowledge of so sad a story as mine, and I kept silent. Unw 
dear my young playmate became to me, no words can express. 
The office which each filled, the influence which each of us **£ert- 
3d upon the other, was such as to create mutual dependence for 


491 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


though his was the leading spirit, the strong and determined wil* 
and I was ever submissive tc a rule which to my easily-influenced 
nature was never irksome, there was one respect in which my bold 
young protector and ruler ever looked to me for aid and support, 
It was to act as mediator between him and my father ; for, while 
the boy was almost an idol to his mother, he was ever treated 
with coldness and distrust by my father, who never understood 
or appreciated his many noble qualities, but seemed always to 
regard him with an eye of suspicion and dislike. To my suppli 
eating looks and entreating words, however, he ever lent a willing 
ear, and all my eloquence was sure to be at the service of my 
companion when he had a favor to obtain or an excuse to plead. 

“ That my father’s sternness towards her son was a great cause 
of unhappiness to our mother, I can have no doubt ; for I well 
remember the anxiety with which she strove to conceal his faults 
and misdemeanors, and the frequent occasions on which she her- 
self instructed me how to propitiate the parent, who, for my sake, 
would often forgive the boy, whose bold, adventurous, independent 
disposition, was continually bringing him into collision with one 
of whose severity, when displeased, you have yourself had some 
opportunity to judge. My step-mother had been extremely poor 
in her widowhood, and her child, having inherited nothing which 
he could call his own, was wholly dependent upon my father’s 
bounty. This \0hs a stinging cause of mortification and trial to 
the pride of which even as a boy he had an unusual share ; and 
often have I seen him chafed and irritated at the reception of 
favors which he well understood were far from being awarded by 
a paternal hand ; my father, in the mean time, who did not un- 
derstand this feeling, mentally accusing him of gross ingratitude. 

“ As long as our mother was spared to us we lived in com- 
parative harmony; but at last, when I was just sixteen years 
old, she was 5 tricken with sudden illness, and died. W ell do I 
remember, the last night of her life, her calling me to the bed- 
side, and saying, in a solemn voice, ‘ Emily, my. dying prayer is 
that you will be a guardian-angel to my boy ! ’ God forgive 
oae,” ejaculated the now tearful blind girl, ‘ if I have been faith 
tc the trust ! 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


395 


“ He ol whom I am telling you (for Emily carefully forbore 
r-o mention his name) was then about eighteen. He had lately 
become a clerk in my father’s counting-room, much against his 
will, for he earnestly desired a collegiate education ; but my 
father was determined, and, at his mother’s and my persuasion, 
he was induced to submit. My step-mother’s death knit the tie 
between her son and myself more closely than ever. He still 
continued an inmate of our house, and we passed all the time 
that he could be spared from the office in the enjoyment of each 
other’s society ; for my father was much from home, and, when 
there, usually shut himself up in his library, leaving us to enter- 
tain each other. I was then a school-girl, fond of books, and an 
excellent student. How often, when you have spoken of the as- 
sistance Willie was to you in your studies* have I been reminded 
of the time when I, too, received similar encouragement and aid 
from ray own youthful companion and friend, who was ever ready 
to exert hand and brain in my behalf! We were not invariably 
happy, however. Often did my father’s face weal that stern 
expression which I most dreaded to see ; while the excited, 
disturbed and occasionally angry countenance of his step-son, 
denoted plainly that some storm had occurred, probably at the 
counting-room, of which I had no knowledge, except from its 
after effects. My office of mediator, too, was suspended, from the 
fact that the difficulties which arose were usually concerning some 
real or supposed neglect or mismanagement of business matters 
on the part of the young and inexperienced clerk ; a species of 
faults with which my father, a most thorough merchant and 
exact accountant, had very little patience, and to which the 
careless and unbusiness-like delinquent was exceedingly prone. 
Matters went on thus for about six months, when it suddenly 
became evident that my father had either been powerfully in- 
fluenced by insinuations from some foreign quarter, or had himself 
suddenly conceived a new and alarming idea. He is, as you are 
aware, a plain man, honest and straight-forward in his purposes, 
whatever they may be ; and, even if it occurred to him to ma- 
noeuvre, incapable of carrying out successfully, or with tact* any 
species of artifice. Our eyes could not, therefore, long he closed 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


396 


to the fact that he was resolved to put an immediate check 
upon the freedom of intercourse which lad hitherto subsisted 
between the two youthful inmates of his house ; to forward which 
purpose he immediately introduced into the family, in the position 
of housekeeper, Mrs. Ellis, who has continued with us evei 
since. The almost constant presence of this stranger, together 
with the sudden interference of my father with such of our long- 
established customs as favored his step-son’s familiar intimacy 
with me, sufficiently proved his intention to uproot and destroy 
if possible, the closeness of our friendship. Nor was it surprising, 
considering the circumstance that I had already reached the 
period of womanhood, and the attachment between us could no 
longer be considered a childish one, while any other might be 
expected to draw forth my father’s disapproval, since his wife’s 
idolized son was as far as ever from being a favorite with him. 

“ My distress at these proceedings was only equalled by the 
indignation of my companion in suffering, whom no previous con- 
duct on my father’s part had ever angered as this did ; nor did 
the scheme succeed in separating him from me ; for, while he on 
every possible occasion avoided the presence of that spy (as he 
termed Mrs. Ellis), his inventive genius continually contrived 
opportunities of seeing and conversing with me in her absence, — 
a course of behavior calculated to give still greater coloring to 
my father’s suspicions. 

“ I am convinced that he was mainly actuated to this course 
Ly a deep sense of unkindness and injustice, and a desire to 
manifest his independence of what he considered unwarrantable 
tyranny ; nor have I reason to believe that the idea of romance, 
^r even future marriage with myself, entered at all into his cal- 
culations ; and I, who at that time knew, or, at least, was influ- 
enced by no higher law than his will, lent myself unhesitatingly 
to a species of petty deception, to elude the vigilance which would 
have kept us apart. My father, however, as is frequently the 
case with people of his unsocial temperament and apparent obtuse- 
ness of observation, saw more of our manoeuvring than we were 
aware of, and imagined far more than ever in reality existed. 
He watched us carefully, and, contrary to his usual course of 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


897 

proceeding, forbore for a time any interference. I have since 
been led te think that he designed to wean us from each other 
m a less unnatural manner than that which he had at first 
attempted, by availing himself of the earliest opportunity to 
transfer his step-son to a situation connected with his own mer- 
cantile establishment, either in a foreign country, or a distant 
part of our own ; and forbore, until his plans were ripe, to distress 
and grieve me by giving way to the feelings of annoyance and 
displeasure which were burning within him, — for he was, and 
had ever been, as kind and indulgent toward his undeserving 
child as was consistent with a due maintenance of his authority 

“ Before such a course could be carried out, however, circum 
stances occurred, and suspicions became aroused, which destroyed 
one of their victims, and plunged the other — ” 

Here Emily’s voice failed her. She laid her head upon Ger- 
trude’s shoulder, and sobbed bitterly. 

“ Do not try to tell me the rest, dear Emily,” said Gertrude. 
“ It is enough for me to know that you are so unhappy. Do not 
make yourself wretched by dwelling, for my sake, upon sorrows 
that are past.” 

“ Past ! ” replied Emily, recovering her ? oice, and wiping away 
her tears ; “ no, they are never past ; it is only because I am so 
little wont to speak of them that they overcome me now. Nor 
am I unhappy, Gertrude. It is but rarely that my peace is 
shaken ; nor would I now allow my weak nerves to be unstrung 
by imparting to another the secrets of that never-to-be-forgotten 
time of trial, were it not that, since you know so well how har- 
moniously and sweetly my life is passing on to its great and 
eternal awakening, I desire to prove to my darling child the 
power of that heavenly faith which has turned my darkness into 
marvellous light, and made afflictions such as mine the blessed 
harbingers of final joy. 

“ But I have not much more to tell, and that sha'il be in as 

few words as possible.” 

She then went on, in a firm though low and suppressed voice. 

I was suddenly taken ill with a fever. Mrs. Ellis, whom I 
had always ;reated with coldness, and often with disdain (for y jr 
84 


398 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


must remember I was a spoiled child), nursed me by sight anti 
day with a care and de 7 otion which I had no right to expect at 
her hands ; and, under her watchful attendance, and the skilful 
treatment of our good Dr. Jeremy 'even then the family physi- 
cian), I began, after some weeks, to recover. One day, when 1 
was sufficiently well to be up and dressed for several hours at a 
time, I went, for change of air and scene, into my father’s library, 
the room next my own, and there quite alone lay half reclining 
upon the sofa. Mrs. Ellis had gone to attend to household duties, 
out, before she left me, she brought from the adjoining chamber 
and placed within my reach a small table, upon which were 
arranged various phials, glasses, etc., and among them everything 
which I could possibly require before her return. It was towards 
the latter part of an afternoon in June, and I lay watching the 
approach of sunset from an opposite window. I was oppressed 
with a sad sense of loneliness, for during the past six weeks I 
had enjoyed no society but that of my nurse, together with peri- 
odical visits from my father ; and felt therefore no common satis- 
laction and pleasure when my most congenial but now nearly 
forbidden associate unexpectedly entered the room. He had not 
seen me since my illness, and after this unusually protracted and 
painful separation our meeting was proportionately tender and 
affectionate. He had, with all the fire of a hot and ungoverned 
temper, a woman’s depth of feeling, warmth of heart, and sympa- 
thizing sweetness of manner. Well do I remember the expres- 
sion of his noble face, the manly tones of his voice, as, seated 
oeside me on the wide couch, he bathed the temples of my aching 
head with cologne, which he took from the table near by, at the 
same time expressing again and again his joy at once more seeing 
me. 

“ How long we had sat thus I cannot tell, but the twilight was 
deepening in the room, when we w^re suddenly interrupted by 
my father, who entered abruptly, came towards us with hasty steps, 
but, stopping short when within a yard or two, folded his arms 
and confronted his step-son with such a look of angry contempt 
a* I had never before seen ufon his face. The latter rose and 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


399 


alood before him with a glance of proud defiance, and then ensued 
a scene which I have neither the wish nor the power to describe. 

“ It is sufficient to say that in the double accusation which my 
excited parent now brought against the object of hhi wrath he 
urged the fact of his seeking (as he expressed it) by mean, base, 
and contemptible artifice to win the affections, and with them the 
expected fortune, of his only child, as a secondary and pardon- 
able crime, compared with his deeper, darker, and but just 
detected guilt of forgery, — forgery of a large amount, and upon 
his benefactor’s name. 

“ To this day, so far as I know,” said Emily, with feeling, 
“ that charge remains uncontradicted ; but I did not then, I do 
not now, and I never can believe it. Whatever were his faults 
(and his impetuous temper betrayed him into many), of this dark 
crime (though I have not even his own word in attestation) I 
dare pronounce him innocent. 

“ You cannot wonder, Gertrude, that in my feeble and invalid 
condition I was hardly capable of realizing at the time, far less 
of retaining any distinct recollection of the circumstances that 
followed my father’s words. A few dim pictures, however, the 
last my poor eyes ever beheld, are still engraved upon my memorv. 
and visible to my imagination. My father stood with his back 
to the light, and from the first moment of his entering the room 
1 never saw his face again ; but the countenance of the other, the 
object of his accusation, illumined as it was by the last rays of 
the golden sunset, stands ever in the foreground of my recollection. 
His head was thrown proudly back; conscious but injured inno- 
cence proclaimed itself in his clear, calm eye, which shrunk not 
from 1 he closest scrutiny ; his hand was clenched, as if he were 
vainly striving to repress the passion which proclaimed itself in 
the compressed lips, the set teeth, the deep and angry indignation 
which overspread his face. He did not speak, — apparently ho 
could not command voice to do so ; bi*t my father continued to 
upbraid him, in language, no doubt, cutting and severe, though 
I remember not a word of it. It was fearful to watch the work- 
ing of the young man’s face, while he stood there listening to 
taunts and enduring reproaches which were no doubt believed by 


too 


THE LAMPLIGHTEU. 


him who uttered their to be just and merited, but which wiough 
the youth to a legree of frenzy which it was terrible indeed to 
witness. Suddenly he took one step forward, slowly lifting the 
cleuched hand which had hitherto hung at bis side. I know not 
whether he might then have intended to call Heaven to witness 
his innocence of the crime with which he was charged, or whether 
he might have designed to strike my father ; for I sprang from 
my seat, prepared to rush between them, and implore them, for 
my sake, to desist ; but my strength failed me, and with a shriek 
I sunk back in a fainting fit. 

“0, the horror of my awakening ! How shall I find words to 
tell it ? — and yet I must! Listen, Gertrude. He — the poor, 
ruined boy — sprung to help me ; and, maddened by injustice, he 
knew not what he did. Heaven is my witness, I never blamed 
him ; and if, in my agony, I uttered words that seemed like a 
reproach, it was because I too was frantic, and knew not what I 
said ! ” 

“ What ! ” exclaimed Gertrude ; “ he did not — ” 

“No, no! he did not — he did not put out my eyes!” ex- 
claimed Emily ; “ it was an accident. He reached forward for 
the cologne which he had just had in his hand. There were 
several bottles, and, in his haste, he seized one containing a pow- 
erful acid which Mrs. Ellis had found occasion to use in my sick 
room. It had a heavy glass stopper, — and he — his hand was 
unsteady, and, he spilt it all — ” 

“ On your eyes ? ” shrieked Gertrude. 

Emily bowed her head. 

“ 0, poor Emily ! ” cried Gertrude, “ and wretched, wretched 
young man ! ” 

“ Wretched indeed ! ” ejaculated Emily. “ Bestow all your 
pity on him, Gertrude, for his was the harder fate of the two.” 

“ 0, Emily ! how intense must have been the pain you endured ! 
How could you suffer so, and live ? ” 

“ Do you mean the pain from my eyes ? That was sever* 
indeed, but the mental agony was worse ! ” 

“ What became of him ? ” said Gertrude. What di I Mi 
Qrahcx dc ? ” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


40 i 

1 cannot give you any exact account of what followed 1 
ivas in no state to know anything of my father’s treatment of his 
step-son. You can imagine it. however. He banished him from his 
sight and knowledge forever ; and it is easy to believe it was with 
no added gentleness, since he had now, beside the other crimes im- 
puted to him, been the unhappy cause of his daughter’s blindness.” 

“ And did you never hear fr:m him again ? ” 

“ Yes. Through the good doctor, who alone knew all the cir- 
cumstances, I learned — after a long interval of suspense — that 
he had sailed for South America ; and, in the hope of once more 
communicating with the poor exile, and assuring him of # my 
continued love, I rallied from the wretched state of sickness v 
fever and blindness, into which I had fallen ; the doctor had even 
some expectation of restoring sight to my eyes, which were in a 
much more hopeful condition. Several months passed away, and 
my kind friend, who was most diligent and persevering in his 
inquiries, having at length learned the actual residence and 
address of the ill-fated youth, I was commencing, through the aid 
of Mrs. Ellis (whom pity had now wholly won to my service), a 
letter of love, and an entreaty for his return, when a fatal seal 
was put to all my earthly hopes. He died, in a foreign land, 
alone, unnursed, untended, and uncared for ; he died of that 
inhospitable southern disease, which takes the stranger for its 
victim ; and I, on hearing the news of it, sunk back into a more 
pitiable malady ; and — alas for the encouragement the good doctor 
had held out of my gradual restoration to sight ! — I wept all his 
hopes away ! ” 

Emily paused. Gertrude put her arms around her, and they 
clung closely to each other ; grief and sorrow made the union 
between them dearer than ever. 

“ I was then, Gertrude,” continued Emily, “ a child of the 
world, eager for worldly pleasures, and ignorant of any other. 
For a time, therefore, I dwelt in utter darkness, — the darkness 
of despair. I began too again to feel my bodily strength restored, 
and to look forward to a useless and miserable life. You can 
form no idea of the utter wretchedness in which my days were 
passed. Often have I since reproached myself for the misery I 
34 * 


402 


THE LAMPLIGHTEK. 


must have ca ised my poor father, who, though he never spoke of 
it, was, I am sure, deeply pained by the recollection of the terrible 
scenes we had lately gone through, and who would, I am con- 
vinced, have given worlds to restore the past. 

“ But at last there came a dawn to my seemingly everlasting 
night. It came in the shape of a minister of Christ, our own dear 
Mr. Arnold; who opened the eyes of my understanding, lit the 
lamp of religion in my now softened soul, taught me the way to 
peace, and led my feeble steps into that blessed rest which even 
on earth remaineth to the people of God. 

“ In the eyes of the world, I am still the unfortunate blind girl ; 
one who, by her sad fate, is cut off from every enjoyment ; but so 
great is the awakening I have experienced, that to me it is far 
otherwise, — and I am ready to exclaim, like him who in old time 
experienced his Saviour’s healing power, ‘ Once I was blind, but 
now I see ! ’ ” 

Gertrude half forgot her own troubles while listening to Emily’s 
sad story ; and when the latter laid her hand upon her head, and 
prayed that she too might be fitted for a patient endurance of 
trial, and be made stronger and better thereby, she felt her heart 
penetrated with that deep love and trust which seldom come to 
as except in the hour of sorrotv, and prove, that it is through suf 
iering only we are mad*» perf^t. 


\ 


OHJ PTEB XLI. 

But in that hour of agony the maid 
Deserted not herself ; her very dread 
Had calmed her ; and her heart 
Knew the whole horror, and its only part, 

Southey. 

As Mi Graham had expressed in his letter the intention of t^ing 
ai the steamboat wharf in New York to meet his daughter a^d 
Gertrude on their arrival, Dr. Jeremy thought it unnecessary fo. 
him to accompany his charges further than Albany, where he 
could see them safely on their way, and then proceed to Boston 
with his wife over the Western Eailroad ; Mrs. Jeremy being now 
impatient to return home, and having, moreover, no disposition to 
revisit the great metropolis of New York during the warm 
weather. 

“ Good-by, Gerty,” said the doctor, as he bade them farewell 
on the deck of one of the Hudson-river boats. “ I ’m afrain 
you ’ve lost your heart in Saratoga ; you don’t look quite s^ 
bright as you did when we first arrived there. It can’t have 
strayed far, however, I think, in such a place as that ; so be sure 
and find it before I see you in Boston.” 

He had hardly gone, and it wanted a few minutes only of the 
vime for the boat to start, when a gay group of fashionables made 
their appearance, talking and laughing too loud, as it seemed to 
Gertrude, to be well-bred ; and conspicuous among them was Miss 
Clinton, whose companions were evidently making her the subject 
of a great deal of wit and pleasantry, by which, although she 
feigned to be teased and half-offended, her smiling, blushing face 
gave evidence that she felt flattered and pleased. At length, the 
significant gestures of some of the party, and a half- smothered 


404 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


hush-h ! gave intimation of the approach of some one who must 
not overhear their remarks ; and presently William Sullivan, with 
a travelling-bag in his hand, a heavy shawl thrown over one arm, 
and his countenance grave, as if he had not quite recovered from 
the chagrin of the previous evening, appeared in sight, passed 
Gertrude, whose veil was drawn over her face, and joined Isabel, 
placing his burden on a chair which stood near. 

He had hardly commenced speaking to Miss Clinton, however, 
before the violent ringing of the bell gave notice to all but the 
passengers to quit the boat, and he' was compelled to make a hasty 
movement to depart. As he did so, he drew a step nearer Ger- 
trude, a step further from her whom he was addressing, and the 
former p^inly distinguished the closing words of his remark: 
“ Then, if you will do your best to return on Thursday, I will try 
not to be impatient in the mean time.” 

A moment more, and the boat was on its way ; not, however, 
until a tall figure, who reached the landing just as she started, had, 
to the horror of the spectators, daringly leaped the gap that 
already divided her from the shore ; after which, he sought the 
gentleman’s saloon, threw himself upon a couch, drew a book from 
his pocket, and commenced reading. 

As soon as the boat was fairly under way, and quiet prevailed in 
their neighborhood, Emily spoke softly to Gertrude, and said, 

“ Did n’t I just now hear Isabel Clinton’s voice ? ” 

“ She is here,” replied Gertrude, “ on the opposite side of the 
deck, but sitting with her back towards us.” 

“ Did n’t she see us ? ” 

“ I believe she did,” answered Gertrude, “ She stood looking 
♦his way while her party were arranging their seats.” 

“ And then chose one which commanded a different view ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Perhaps she is going to New York to meet Mrs. Graham.” 

“ Very possible,” replied Gertrude. “ I did n’t think of it before,” 
There was then quite a pause. Emily appeared to be engaged 
in thought. Presently she asked, in the softest of whisper n, “ Who 
vas the gentlemin who came and spoke to her just before the boat 
started ? ” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


405 


“ Willie \ was the tremulous response. 

Emily pressed Gertrude’s hand, and was silent. She, too, had 
t Jerheard his farewell remark, and felt its significance. 

Several hours passed away, and they had proceeded some dis- 
tance down the river ; for the motion of the boat was rapid — too 
rapid, as it seemed to Gertrude, for safety. At first occupied by 
her own thoughts, and unable to enjoy the beautiful scenery, 
which a few weeks previously had caused her such keen delight, 
she had sat, inattentive to all around, gazing down into the deep blue 
water, and communing with her own heart. Gradually, however, 
she was led to observe several circumstances, which excited so 
much curiosity, and finally so much alarm, that, effectually 
aroused from the train of reflections she had been indulging, she 
had leisure only to take into view her own and Emily’s present 
situation, and its probable consequences. 

Several times, since they left Albany, had the boat in which 
they were passengers passed and repassed another of similar size, 
construction and speed, likewise responsibly charged with busy, 
living freight, and bound in the same direction. Occasionally, 
during their headlong and reckless course, the contiguity of the 
two boats was such as to excite the serious alarm of one sex, and 
the unmeasured censure of the other. The rumor began to be 
circulated that they were racing, and racing desperately. Some 
few, regardless of danger, and entering upon the interest of the 
chase with an insane and foolish excitement, watched with pleased 
eagerness the mad career of rival ambition ; but by far the 
majority of the company, including all persons of reason and 
sense, looked on in indignation and fear. The usual stopping- 
places on the rWer were either recklessly passed by, or only 
paused at, while, with indecent haste, passengers were shuffled 
backwards and forwards, at the risk of life and limb, their bag- 
gage (or somebody’s else) unceremoniously flung after them the 
panting, snorting engine in the mean time bellowing with rage at 
the check thus unwillingly imposed upon its freedom. Towards 
noon the ‘bver of agitation had reached its height, and could not 
be wh oil;' quieted ever by the assurance from head-quarters that 
there was no danger . 


106 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


Geiti ide sat with her hand locked in Emily’s, anxiously watcm 
tug every indication of terror, and endeavoring to judge from the 
countenances and words of her most intelligent-looking fellow-trav- 
ellers the actual degree of their insecurity. Emily, shut out from 
the sight of all that was going on, but rendered, through her acute 
hearing, vividly conscious of the prevailing alarm, was perfectly 
calm, though very pale ; and, from time to time, questioned G er- 
trude concerning the vicinity of the other boat, a collision with 
which was the principal cause of fear. 

At length their boat for a few moments distanced its competitor , 
the assurance of perfect safety was impressively asserted, anxiety 
began to be relieved, and, most of the passengers being restored 
to their wonted composure, the various parties scattered about the 
deck resumed their newspapers or their conversation. The gay 
group to which Isabel Clinton belonged, several of whom had been 
the victims of nervous agitation and trembling, seemed reassured, 
and began once more to talk and laugh merrily. Emily, however^ 
still looked pallid, and, as Gertrude fancied, a little faint. “ Let 
us go below, Emily,” said she ; “ it appears now to be very quiet 
and safe. There are sofas in the ladies’ cabin, where you can lie 
down ; and we can both get a glass of water.” 

Emily assented, and in a few minutes was comfortably reclining 
in a corner of the saloon, where she and Gertrude remained undis- 
turbed until dinner-time. They did not go to the dinner-table; it 
was not their intention from the first, and, after the agitation of 
the morning, was far from being desirable. So they stayed quietly 
where they were, while the greater part of the passengers crowded 
from every part of the boat, to invigorate themselves, after their 
fright, by the enjoyment of a comfortable meal ; which they had 
reason to expect, as the racing appeared to have ceased, and every- 
thing was orderly and peaceable. 

Gertrude opened her travelling-basket, and took out the pack- 
age which contained their luncheon. It was not one of those 
luncheons which careful mothers provide for their travelling fam- 
ilies, choice in its material, and tempting in its arrangement ; but 
consisted merely of such dry morsels as had been hastily collected 
*nd put up at their hotel, in Alban}' by Dr. Jeremy’s direction 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


m 


Gertrude looked from the little withered slices of tongue and 
stale bread to the veteran sponge-cakes which completed the assort- 
ment, and was hesitating which she could most conscientiously 
recommend to Emily, when a civil-looking waiter appeared, bear- 
ing a huge tray of refreshments, which he placed upon a table 
close by, at the same time turning to Gertrude, and asking if there 
was anything else he could serve her with. 

“ This is not for us,” said Gertrude. “ You have made a mis- 
take.” 

“No mistake,” replied the man. “Orders was for de blind 
lady and hansum young miss. I only ’beys orders. Anyting 
furder, miss ? ” 

Gertrude dismissed the man with the assurance that they 
wanted nothing more, and then, turning to Emily, asked, with an 
attempt at cheerfulness, what they should do with this Aladdin- 
like repast. 

“ Eat it, my dear, if you can,” said Emily. “ It is no doubt 
meant for us.” 

“ But to whom are we indebted for it ? ” 

“To my blindness and your beauty, I suppose,” said Emily 
smiling. She then continued, with wonderful simplicity, “ Per- 
haps the chief steward, or master of ceremonies, took pity on our 
inability to come to dinner, and so sent the dinner to us. At any 
rate, my child, you must eat it before it is cold.” 

“ I ! ” said Gertrude, conscious of her utter want of appetite ; 
“I am not hungry ; but I will select a nice bit for you.” 

The sable waiter, when he came to remove the dishes, really 
looked sad to see how little they had eaten. Gertrude drew out 
her purse, and, after bestowing a fee upon the man, inquired 
vvhom she should pay for the meal. 

“ Pay, miss ! ” said the man, grinning. “ Bless my stars ! de 
gentleman pays for all ! ” 

" Who ? What gentleman ? ” asked Gertrude, in surprise. 

But before the man could give her any reply, another white- 
aproned individual appeared, and beckoned to his fellow-waiter, 
who, thereupon, snatched up h:s tray and trotted off, bending 


408 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


beneath its weight, and leaving Gertrude and Emily to wonder 
who the benevolent gentleman might be. 

They finallj came to the conclusion that this unexpected atten- 
tion was due to the thoughtfulness of Dr. J eremy, who must have 
given orders to that effect before he left the boat ; and great was 
the unmerited praise and the undeserved gratitude which the 
doctor received that day, for an act of considerate politeness of 
which the old gentleman, with all his kindness of heart, would 
never have dreamed. 

Dinner concluded, Emily again laid dowu, advised Gertrude 
to do the same, and, supposing that her advice was being followed, 
slept for an hour; while her companion sat by, watching the 
peaceful slumber of her friend, and carefully and noiselessly 
brushing away every fly that threatened to disturb a repose much 
needed by Miss Graham, who could, in her feeble state of health, 
ill afford to spare the rest she had been deprived of for one or 
two previous nights. 

“ What time is it ? ” asked she, on awaking. 

“ Nearly a quarter past three,” replied Gertrude, glancing at 
her watch (a beautiful gift from a class of her former pupils). 

Emily started up. “We can’t be far from New York,” said 
she ; “ where are we now ? ” 

“ I don’t know exactly,” replied Gertrude ; “ I think we must 
be near the Palisades; if you will stay here, I will go and see.” 
She passed across the saloon, and was about ascending the stair- 
case, when she was startled and alarmed by a rushing sound, 
mingled with the hurried tread of feet. She kept on, however 
though once or twice jostled by persons with frightened faces, 
who crowded past and pressed forward to learn the cause of the 
commotion. She had just gained the head of the stairway, and 
was looking fearfully round her, when a man rushed past, gasp- 
ing for breath, his face of an ashen paleness, and shrieking the 
horrid word of alarm — fire — fire ! 

A second more, and a scene of dismay and confusion ensued 
too terrible for description. Shrieks rose upon the air, groans 
sind cries of despair burst forth from hearts that were breaking 
with fear Tor others, or maddened at the certainty of their own 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


409 


destruction. Each called uoon each for help, when ill were alike 
belplcss. Those who had never prayed before poured out their 
souls in the fervent ejaculation, “ 0, my God ! ” Many a brain 
reeled in that time of darkness and peril. Many a brave spirit 
sickened and sunk under the fearfulness of the hour. 

G ertrude straightened her slight figure, and, with her dark eyes 
almost starting from their sockets, gazed around her upon every 
side All was alike tumult ; but the destroyer was as yet discern- 
ible in one direction only. Towards the centre of the boat, where 
the machinery, heated to the last degree, had fired the parched 
and inflammable vessel, a huge volume of flame was already 
visible, darting out its fiery fangs, and causing the stoutest hearts 
to shrink and crouch in horror. She gave but one glance ; then 
bounded down the stairs, bent solely on rejoining Emily. But she 
was arrested at the very onset. One step only had she taken 
when she felt herself encircled by a pair of powerful arms, and 
a movement made to again rush with her upon deck ; while a 
familiar voice gasped forth the words, “ Gertrude, my child ! my 
own darling ! Be quiet — be quiet ! — I will save you ! ” 

Well might he urge her to be quiet, — for she was struggling 
madly. “ No, no ! ” shouted she ; “ Emily ! Emily ! Let me die I 
let me die ! but I must find Emily ! ” 

“ Where is she ? ” asked Mr. Phillips ; for it was he. 

“ There, there,” pointed Gertrude, — “ in the cabin. Let me go ! 
let me go ! ” 

He cast one look around him ; then said, in a firm tone, “ Be 
calm, my child ! I can save you both ; follow me closely ! ; 

With a leap he cleared the staircase, and rushed into the cabin. 
In the farthest corner knelt Emily, her head thrown back, her 
hands clasped, and her face like the face of an angel. 

Gertrude and Mr. Phillips were by her side in an instant. He 
stooped to lift her in his arms, Gertrude at the same time 
exclaiming, “ Come, Emily, come ! He will save us ! ” 

But Emily resisted. “Leave me, Gertrude — leave me, and 
save yourselves! O ! ” said she, looking imploringly in the face 
cf the stranger, — “leave ne, and save my child.” Ere th# 
35 


no 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


words had left her lips, however, she was borne ha_£way acrosr 
the saloon, Gertrude following closely. 

“ If we can cross to the bows of the boat, we are safe ! ” said 
Mr. Phillips, in a husky voice. 

To do so, however, proved impossible. The whole centre 
of the boat was now one sheet of flame. “ Good Heavens 1 ,J 
exclaimed he, ‘ we ars too late ! we must go back ! ” 

A moment more, and they had with much difficulty regained 
the long saloon. And now the boat, which, as soon as the fire 
was discovered, had been turned towards the shore, struck upon 
the rocks, and parted in the middle. Her bows were conse- 
quently brought near to the land ; near enough to almost insure 
the safety of such persons as were at that part of the vessel. 
But, alas for those near the stern ! which was far out in the river, 
while the breeze which blew fresh from the shore fostered and 
spread the devouring flame in the very direction to place those 
who yet clung to the broken fragment between two equally fatal 
elements. 

Mr. Phillips’ first thought, on gaining the saloon, was to beat 
down a window-sash, spring upon the guards, and drag Emily 
and Gertrude after him. Some ropes hung upon the guards ; he 
seized one, and, with the ease and skill of an old sailor, made it 
fast to the boat ; then turned to Gertrude, who stood firm and 
unwavering by his side. 

“Gertrude,” said he, speaking distinctly and steadily, “ 1 
shall swim to the shore with Emily. If the fire comes too near, 
cling to the guards ; as a last chance, hold on to the rope. Keep 
your veil flying ; I shall return.” 

“ No, no ! ” cried Emily. “ Gertrude, go first ! ” 

“Hush, Emily!” exclaimed Gertrude; “we shall both be 
saved.” 

“ Cling to my shoulder in the water, Emily,” said Mr. Phil- 
lips, utterly regardless of her protestations. He took her once 
more in his arms; there was a splash, and they were gone. At 
the same instant Gertrude was seized from behind. She turned, 
and found herself grasped by Isabel Clinton, who, kneeling upon 
the platform, and frantic with terror, was clinging so closely 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


41 1 

her as utterly to disable them botli ; at the same time shrieking, 
in pitiable tones, “ 0, Gertrude ! Gertrude! save me ! ” 

Gertrude tried to lift her up, but she was immovable ; and, 
without making the slightest effort to help herself, was madly 
winding Gertrude’s thick travelling-dress around her person, as 
if for a protection from the flames ; while ever, as they darted 
forth new and nearer lightnings, the frightened girl would cling 
more wildly to her companion in danger, at the same time praying 
with piercing shrieks, that she would help and save her. 

But so long as Gertrude stood thus imprisoned and restrained 
by the arms which were clasped entirely around her she was 
powerless to do anything for her own or Isabel’s salvation. She 
looked forth in the direction Mr. Phillips had taken, and, to her 
joy, she saw him returning. He had deposited Emily on board a 
boat, which was fortunately at hand, and was now approaching 
to claim another burden. At the same instant, a volume of 
flame swept so near the spot where the two girls were stationed, 
that Gertrude, who was standing upright, felt the scorching heat, 
and both were almost suffocated with smoke. 

And now a new and heroic resolution took possession of the 
mind of Gertrude. One of them could be saved ; for Mr. Phillips 
was within a few rods of the wreck. It should be Isabel ! She 
had called on her for protection, and it should not be denied her ! 
Moreover, Willie loved Isabel. Willie would weep for her loss, 
and that must not be. He would not weep for Gertrude — at 
least not much ; and, if one must die, it should be she. 

With Gertrude, to resolve was to do. “Isabel,” said she, in. 
a tone of such severity as one might employ towards a refractory 
child, with whom, as in this instance, milder remonstrances had 
failed — “ Isabel, do you hear me ? Stand up on your feet ; do 
as I tell you, and you shall be saved. Ho you hear me, Isabel ? ” 
She heard, shuddered, but did not move. 

Gertrude stooped down, and, forcibly wrenching apart the 
hands which were convulsively clenched, said, with a sternness 
which necessity alone extorted from her, “ Isabel, if you dc as I 
icll you, you will be on shore in five minutes, safe and well; but, 
if you rtay tbsre behaving like $ foolish ch ; ld, we shall both oe % 


412 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


burnt to death. Fcv mercy’s sake, get up quickly and liste? t<j 
me ! ' 

Isabel rose, fixed her eyes upon Gertrude’s calm, steadfast face 
and said, in a moaning tone, “ What must I do ? I will try.” 

Go you see that person swimming this way ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ He will come to this spot. Hold fast to that piece of rope, 
and I will let you gradually down to the water. But, stay ! ” — 
and, snatching the deep blue veil from her own head, she tied it 
round the neck and flung it over the fair hair of Isabel. Mr. 
Phillips was within a rod or two. “ Now, Isabel, now ! ” 
exclaimed Gertrude, “ or you will be too late ! ” Isabel took the 
rope between her hands, but shrunk back, appalled at the sight 
of the water. One more hot burst of fire, however, which issued 
forth through the window, gave her renewed courage to brave a 
mere seeming danger ; and, aided by Gertrude, who helped her 
over the guards, she allowed herself to be let down to the water’s 
edge. Mr. Phillips was fortunately just in time to receive her, 
for she was so utterly exhausted with fear that she could not 
have clung long to the' rope. Gertrude had no opportunity to 
follow them with her eye ; her own situation, it may well be 
believed, was now all-engrossing. The flames had reached her. 
She could hardly breathe, so enveloped was she in clouds of dark 
smoke, which had more than once been relieved by streaks of 
fire, which had darted out within a foot of her. She could hesi- 
tate no longer. She seized the piece of rope, now left vacant 
by Isabel, who was rapidly approaching a place of safety, and, 
grasping it with all her might, leaped over the side of the fast- 
consuming vessel. How long her strength would have enabled 
her thus to cling, — how long the guards, as yet unapproached 
by the fire, would have continued a sure support for the cable, — 
there was no opportur/ty to test ; for, just as her feet touched the 
cold surface of the river, the huge wheel, which was but a little dis- 
tance from where she hung, gave one sudden, expiring revolution, 
sounding like a death-dirge through the water, which came foam 
ing and dashing up against the side of the boat, and as it swept 
away again, bore with it the light form of Gertrude 


CHAPTER XLXi. 


’T is Reason’s part 
To govern and to guard the heart ; 

To lull the wayward soul to rest. 

When hopes and fears distract the breast. 

Cotton. 

uet is now revisit calmer scenes, and turn our eyes towards th« 4 
quiet, familiar country-seat of Mr. Graham. 

The old gentleman himself, wearied with travels, and society 
but little congenial to his years, is pacing up and down his gar- 
den-walks, stopping now and then to observe the growth of some 
favorite tree, or the overgrowth of some petted shrub, whose neg- 
lected, drooping twigs call for the master’s pruning hand ; his 
contented, satisfied countenance denoting plainly enough hov 
rejoiced he is to find himself once more in his cherished homo 
stead. Perhaps he would not like to acknowledge it, but it i* 
nevertheless a fact, that no small part of his satisfaction arises 
from the circumstance that the repose and seclusion of his house- 
hold is rendered complete and secure by the temporary absence 
of its bustling, excitable mistress, whom he has left behind him 
in New York. There is something pleasant, too, in being able to 
indulge his imagination so far as almost to deceive himself into 
the belief that the good old times have come back again when 
he was his own master ; for, to tell the truth, Mrs. Graham takes 
advantage of his years and growing infirmities, and rules hiia 
with wonderful tact. 

Emily and Gertrude, too, are closely associated with thcx* 
good old times ; and it adds greatly to the delusion of his fancy 
to dwell upon the certainty that they are both in the house, and 
that he shall see them at dinner; a cosey, comfortable dinner 
35 * 


414 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


which Mrs. Ellis will preside with her wonted foimality and pre 
cision, and which no noisy, intruding upstarts will venture tc 
interrupt or disturb. 

Yes, Gertrude is there, as well as the rest, saved (she hardly 
knew how) from the watery grave that threatened and almost 
engulfed her, and established once more in the peaceful, venerable 
spot, now the dearest to her on earth. 

When, with gome difficulty, restored to the consciousness which 
had utterly forsaken her in the protracted struggle between death 
and life, she was informed that she had been found and picked 
up by some humane individuals, who had hastily pushed a boat 
from the shore, and aided inddie rescue of the sufferers ; that she 
was clinging to a chair, which she had probably grasped when 
washed away by the sudden rushing of the water, and that her 
situation was such that, a moment more, and it would have been 
impossible to save her from the flames, close to which she was 
drifting. 

But of all this she had herself no recollection. From the mo- 
ment when she committed her light weight to the frail tenure of 
the rope, until she opened her eyes in a quiet spot, and saw 
Emily leaning anxiously over the bed upon which she lay, all had 
been a blank to her senses. A few hours from the time of the 
terrible catastrophe brought Mr. Graham to the scene, and the next 
day restored all three in safety to the long-deserted old mansion- 
house in D . 

This respectable, venerable habitation, and its adjoining grounds, 
wore nearly the same aspect as when they met the admiring eyes 
of Gerty on the first visit that she made Miss Graham in 
her early childhood, — that long-expected and keenly-enjoyed 
visit, which proved a lasting topic for her youthful enthusiasm 
to dwell upon. 

The great elm-trees, casting their deep shade upon the green 
and velvety lawn in front ; the neat, smooth gravel-walk, which 
led to the door-step, and then wound off in separate directions, 
into the mass of embowered shrubbery on the right, and the 
peach-orchard on the left ; the old arbor, with its luxuriant 
growth of woodbine : the large summer-house, with its knotted, 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


415 


ant rimmed, rustic pil/.ars ; the little fish-poi d and fountain ; and 
especially the flower-garden, during the last season nearly restored, 
by Gertrude’s true friend George, to its original appearance when 
unde? her superintendence; all had the same friendly, familiar 
look as during the first happy summers, when Emily, sitting in 
her garden-chair beneath the wide-spreading tulip-tree, listened 
with delight to the cheerful voice, the merry laugh and the light 
step of the joyous little gardener, who, as she moved about in her w 
favorite element among the flowers, seemed to her affectionate, 
loving blind friend the sweetest Flora of them all. 

Now and then, a stray robin, the last of the numerous throng 
that had flocked to the cherry-feast and departed long ago, came 
hopping across the paths, and over the neatly-trimmed box, lifting 
his head, and looking about him with an air that seemed to say, 
•‘It is time for me, too, to be off.” A family of squirrels, on the 
other hand, old pets of Gertrude’s, whom she loved to watch as 
they played in the willow-tree opposite her window, were just 
gathering in their harvest, and were busily journeying up and 
down, each with a nut in its mouth (for there were nut-trees in 
that garden, and quiet corners, such as squirrels love). Last 
year they did not come, — at least, they did not stay , — for Mrs. 
Graham and her new gardener voted them a nuisance ; but this 
year they had had it all their own way, and were laying up rich 
stores for the coming winter. 

The old house itself had a look of contentment and repose 
The hall-door stood wide open. Mr. Graham’s arm-chair was in 
its usual place*; Gertrude’s birds, of which Mrs. Ellis had takeu 
excellent care, were hopping about on the slender perches of the 
great Indian cage which hung on the wide piazza. The old 
house-dog lay stretched in the sun, sure that nobody would molest 
him. Plenty of flowers once more graced the parlor, and all 
was very still, very quiet, and very comfortable ; and Mr. Gra 
tiam thought so, as he came up tne steps, patted the dog, whistled 
to the birds, sat down in the arm-chair, and took the morning 
paper from :he hand of the neat housemaid, who came bringing 
t across the hall. 

Th< dear old place was the dear old place still. Time seemed 


m 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


only U lend It additional grace, to give it air of greatei 
peace, seclusion and repose. 

But how is it with the inmates ? 

Mr. Graham, as we have already hinted, has been having new 
experiences ; and although some features of his character are too 
closely inwrought to be ever wholly eradicated, he is, in many 
respects, a changed man. The time had once been when he 
would have resisted courageously every innovation upon his 
domestic prejudices and comforts ; but old age and ill-health had 
somewhat broken his spirit, and subdued his hitherto invincible 
will. Just at this crisis, too, he united his fortunes with one 
who had sufficient energy of purpose, combined with just enough 
good-nature and tact, to gain her point on every occasion when 
she thought it material to do so. She indulged him, to be sure, 
in his favorite hobbies, allowed him to continue in the fond 
belief that his sway (when he chose to exercise it) was indis* 
putable, and yet contrived to decide herself in all important 
matters, and had, at last, driven him to such extremity, that he 
had taken it for his maxim to get what comfort he could, and let 
things take their course. 

No wonder, therefore, that he looked forward to a few weeks 
of old-fashioned enjoyment much as a school-boy does to his 
vacation. 

Emily is sitting in her own room, carelessly clad in a loose 
wrapper. She is paler than ever, and her face has an anxious, 
troubled expression. Every time the door opens, she starts, 
trembles, a sudden flush overspreads her face, and twice already 
during the morning she has suddenly burst into tears. Every 
exertion, even that of dressing, seems a labor to her ; she cannot 
listen to Gertrude’s reading, but will constantly interrupt her, to 
ask questions concerning the burning boat, her own and others 
rescue, and every circumstance connected with the terrible scene 
of agony and death. Her nervous system is evidently fearfully 
shattered, and Gertrude looks at her and weeps, and wonders to 
see how her wonted calmness and composure have forsaken her. 

They have been together since breakfa* t, but Emily will no! 
allow Gertrude to stay with her any longer She must go away 


THU LAMPLIGHTER. 


417 


and walk. 07, at least, change the scene. She may come back in 
an hour and help her dress for dinner, — a ceremony which Miss 
Graham wih by no means omit, her chief desire seeming to be to 
maintain t'ne appearance of health and happiness in the presence 
of her father. Gertrude feels that Emily is in earnest, — that 
she really wishes to be left alone ; and, believing that, for the 
first time, tier presence even is burdensome, she retires to her 
own room, leaving Emily to bow her head upon her hands, and, 
for the third time, utter a few hysterical sobs. 

Gertrude is immediately followed by Mrs. Ellis, who shuts the 
door seats herself, and, with a manner of her own, alone sufficient 
to excite alarm, adds to the poor girl’s fear and distress by 
declaiming at length upon the dreadful effect the recollection of 
that shocking accident is having upon poor Emily. “ She ’s com- 
pletely upset,” is the housekeeper’s closing remark, “ and if she 
don’t begin to get better in a day or two, I don’t hesitate to say 
there ’s no knowing what the consequences may be. Emily is 
feeble, and not fit to travel ; I wish, for my part, she had staid at 
home. I don’t approve of travelling, especially in these shocking 
dangerous times.” 

Fortunately for poor Gertrude, Mrs. Ellis is at length sum- 
moned to the kitchen, and she is left to reflect upon the strange 
circumstances of the last few days, — days fraught to her with 
matter of thought for years, if so long a time had been allowed 
her. A moment, however, and she is again interrupted. The 
housemaid who carried Mr. Graham his paper has something for 
her, too. A letter ! With a trembling hand she receives it, 
scarcely daring to look at the writing or post-mark. Her first 
thought is of Willie ; but before she could indulge either a hope 
or a fear on that score the illusion is dispelled, for, though the 
post-mark is New York, and he might be ffiere, the hand-writing 
is wholly strange. Ar ?■ ther idea, of scarcely less moment, flashes 
into her mind, and, hardly able to breathe from the violence of 
the emotions by which she u oppressed, she breaks the seal and 
reads : 


“Mi darlinc Gertuu de : Mj much-loved child, — for suck 


THE LAMPLIGHTER* 


you indeed ire, though a father’s agony of fear and despair alo*ie 
wrung from me the words that claimed you. It was no madness 
that, in the dark hour of danger, compelled me to clasp you to 
my heart and call you mine. A dozen times before had I been 
seized by the same emotion, and as often had it been subdued 
and smothered. And even now I would crush the promptings of 
nature, and depart and weep my poor life away alone ; but the 
voice within me has spoken once, and cannot again be silenced. 
Had I seen you happy, gay and light-hearted, I would not have 
asked to share your joy, far less would I have cast a shadow on 
your path ; but you are sad and troubled, my poor child, and 
your grief unites ihe tie between us closer than that of kindred, 
and makes you a thousand times my daughter; for I am a 
wretched, weary man, and know how to feel for others’ woe. 

“You have a kind and a gentle heart, my child. You have 
vept once for the stranger’s sorrows, — will you now refuse to 
pity, if you cannot love, the solitary parent, who, with a breaking 
heart and a trembling hand, writes the ill-fated word that dooms 
him, perhaps, to the hatred and contempt of the only being on 
earth with whom he can claim the fellowship of a natural tie ? 
Twice before have I striven to utter it, and, laying down my pen, 
have shrunk from the cruel task. But, hard as it is to speak, I 
find it harder to still the beating of my restless heart ; therefore 
listen to me, though it may be for the last time. Is there one 
being on earth whom you shudder to think of? Is there one 
associated only in your mind with deeds of darkness and of 
shame ? Is there one name which you have from your childhood 
learned to abhor and hate ; and, in proportion as you love your 
best friend, have you been taught to shrink from and despise her 
worst enemy ? It cannot be otherwise. Ah ! I tremble to think 
how my child will recoil from her father when she learns the 
secret, so long preserved, so sorrowfully revealed, that he is 

“ Philip Amory ! ” 

As Gertrude looked up when she had finished reading this 
strange and unintelligible letter, her countenance expressed only 
romplete bewilderment, — her eyes glistened with great tears, 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


419 


her face was flushed with wonder and excitianent but she was 
evidently at a total loss to account for the meaning of the 
stranger’s words. 

She sat for an instani wildly gazing into vacancy, then, spring- 
ing suddenly up, with the letter grasped in one hand, ran across 
the entry towards Emily’s room, to share with her the wonderful 
contents, and eagerly ask her opinion of their hidden meaning. 
She stopped, however, when her hand was on the door-lock 
Emily was already ill, — the victim of agitation and excitement, 
— it would not do to distress or even disturb her ; and, retreating 
to her own room as hastily as she had come, Gertrude once more 
sat down, to reperuse the singular words, and endeavor to find 
some clue to the mystery. 

That Mr. Phillips and the letter-writer were identical she at 
once perceived. It was no slight impression that his exclamation 
and conduct during the time of their imminent danger on board 
the boat had left upon the mind of Gertrude. During the three 
days that had succeeded the accident, the words “ My child ! my 
own darling ! ” had been continually ringing in her ears and 
haunting her imagination. Now the blissful idea would flash 
upon her that the noble, disinterested stranger, who had risked his 
life so daringly in her own and Emily’s cause, might indeed be 
her father ; and every fibre of her being had thrilled at the 
thought, while her head grew dizzy and confused with the strong 
sensation of hope that agitated and almost overwhelmed her 
brain. Then, again, she had repulsed the idea, as suggesting 
only the height of impossibility* and folly, and had compelled 
herself to take a more rational and probable view of the matter, 
and believe that the stranger’s words and conduct were merely 
the result of powerful and overwhelming excitement, or possibly 
the indications of a somewhat disordered and unsettled imagin- 
ation, — a supposition which much of his previous behavior 
6eemed to warrant. 

Her first inquiries, on recovering consciousness, had bee» for 
the preserver of Emily and Isabel, but he had disappeared ; no 
trace of him could be obtained, and Mr. Graham soon arriving 
and hurrying them from the neighborhood, she had been re* 


420 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


(uctantly competed to abandon the hope of seeing him again, and 
was consequently left entirely to her own vague and unsatisfac 
tory conjectures. 

The same motives which now induced her to forbear consulting 
Emily concerning the mysterious epistle had hitherto prevented 
her from imparting the secret of Mr. Phillips’ inexplicable lan- 
guage and manner ; but she had dwelt upon them none the less, 
and day and night had silently pondered, not only upon recent 
events, but on the entire demeanor of this strange man towards 
her, ever since the earliest moment of their acquaintance. 

The first perusal of the letter served only to excite and alarm 
her. It neither called forth distinct ideas and impressions, nor 
added life and coloring to those she had already formed. 

But, as she sat for more than an hour gazing upon the page 
which she read and re-read until it was blistered and blotted with 
the great tears that fell upon it, the varying expression of her 
face denoted the emotions that, one after another, possessed her ; 
and which, at last, snatching a sheet of paper, she committed to 
writing with a feverish rapidity, that betrayed how deeply, almost 
fearfully, her whole being, heart, mind and body, bent and stag- 
gered beneath the weight of contending hopes, anxieties, warmly- 
enkindled affections, and gloomy upstarting fears. 

“ My dear, dear Father, — If I may dare to believe that you 
are so, and, if not that, my best of friends, — how shall I write to 
you, and what shall I say, since all your words are a mystery ! 
Father ! blessed word ! 0, that my noble friend were indeed my 

father ! Yet tell me, tell me, how can this be? Alas! I feel a 
sad presentiment that the bright dream is all an illusion, an error. 
I never before remember to have heard the name of Philip Ampry. 
My sweet, pure and gentle Emily has taught me to love all the 
world ; and hatred and contempt are foreign to her nature, and, 1 
trust, to my own. Moreover, she has not an enemy in the wide 
world ; never had, or could have. One might as well war with 
an angel of Heaven as with a creature so holy and lovely as she 

“ Nor bid me think of yourself as a man of sin and crime. It 
nnnot be. It would be wronging a noble nature to believe it, 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


421 


and 1 say again il cannot be. Gladly would I trurt myself t<> 
repose on the bosom of such a parent; gladly wou-d I hail the 
sweet duty of consoling the sorrows of one so self-sacrificing, so 
kind, so generous ; whose life has been so freely offered for me, 
and for others whose existence was dearer to me than my own. 
When you took me in your arms and called me your child, your 
darling child, I fancied that the excitement of that dreadful scene 
had for the moment disturbed your mind and brain so far as to 
invest me with a false identity, — perhaps confound my image with 
that of some loved and absent one. I now believe that it was no 
sudden madness, but rather that I have been all along mistaken 
for another, whose glad office it may perhaps be to cheer a father’s 
saddened life, while I remain unrecognized, unsought, — the 
fatherless, motherless one I am accustomed to consider myself. 
If you have lost a daughter, God grant she *may be restored to 
you, to love you as I would do, were I so blessed as to be that 
daughter ! And I, — consider me not a stranger ; let me be your 
child in heart; let me love, pray and weep for you; let me pour 
out my soul in thankfulness for the kind care and sympathy you 
have already given me. And yet, though I disclaim it all, ana 
dare not, yes, dare not dwell for a moment on the thought that 
you are otherwise than deceived in believing me your child, my 
heart leaps up in spite of me, and I tremble and almost cease to 
breathe as there flashes upon me the possibility, the blissful, God 
given hope ! No, no ! I will not think it, lest I could not bear 
to have it crushed ! 0, what am I writing ? I know not. I 

cannot endure the suspense long ; write quickly, or come to me, my 
father, — for I will call you so once, though perhaps never again 

“ Gertrude.” 

Mr. Phillips — or rather Mr. Amory, for we will call him by his 
true name — had either forgotten or neglected to mention his ad- 
dress- Gertrude did not observe this circumstance until she had 
folded and was preparing to direct her letter. She then recol- 
lected the unfortunate omission, and fcr a moment experienced a 
severe pang in the thought that her communication would never 
reach him She was reassured, however, on examining the post 
86 


422 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


ruark which was evidently New York, to which phye the unhes- 
itatingly addressed her missive ; and then, unwilling to kust it to 
other hands, tied on her bonnet, caught up a veil with which to 
protect and conceal her agitated face, and hastened to deposit 
the letter herself in the village post-office. 

To persons of an excitable and imaginative temperament there 
is, perhaps, no greater or more painful state of trial than that 
occasioned by severe and long-continued suspense. When we 
know precisely what we have to bear, we can usually call to our 
aid the needed strength and submission ; but a more than ordinary 
patience and forbearance is necessary to enable us calmly and 
tranquilly to await the approach of an important crisis, big with 
events the nature of which we can have no means of foreseeing, 
but which will inevitably exercise an all-controlling influence upon 
the life. One moment hope usurps the mastery, and promises a 
happy issue ; we smile, breathe freely, and banish care and 
anxiety; but an instant more, and some word, look, or even 
thought, changes the whole current of our feelings, clouds take 
the place of smiles, the chest heaves with a sudden oppression, 
fear starts up like a nightmare, and in proportion as we have 
cherished a confident joy are we plunged into the torture of doubt 
or the agony of despair. 

Gertrude’s case seemed a peculiarly trying one. She had been, 
already, for a week past, struggling with a degree of suspense and 
anxiety which agitated her almost beyond endurance ; and now a 
new occasion of uncertainty and mystery had arisen, involving in 
its issues an almost equal amount of self-questioning and torture. 
It seemed almost beyond the power of so young, so sensitive, and 
so inexperienced a girl, to rally such self-command as would 
enable her to control her emotions, disguise them from observa- 
tion, and compel herself to endure alone and in siknee this cruel 
dispensation of her destiny. 

But she did do it, and biavely, too. Whether the greatness 
of the emergency called forth, as it ever does in a true-hearted 
woman, a proportionate greatness of spirit ; whether the com- 
plication of her web of destiny compelled herewith closed hands 
and a submissive will, to cease all efforts fur its disentanglement' 


THE LAMPLIGHTElt. 


423 

Dr, whether, with that humble trust, which ever grew more deep 
and ardent as the sense of her own helplessness pressed upon her 
she turned for help to Him whose strength is made perfect in weak- 
ness, — it is certain that, as she took her way towards home after 
depositing the letter in the post-master’s hand, the firmness of her 
step, the calm uplifting of her eye, gave token that she that mo- 
ment conceived a brave resolve, — a resolve which, during the two 
days “that intervened ere she received the expected reply, never 
for one moment deserted her. 

And it was this. She would endeavor to suspend for the pres- 
ent those vain conjectures, that fruitless weighing of probabilities, 
which served only to harass* her mind, puzzle her understanding, 
and destroy her peace ; she would ponder no more on matters 
which concerned herself, but with a desperate effort turn all her 
mental and all her physical energy into some other and more dis- 
interested channel, and patiently wait until the cloud which hung 
over her fate should be dissipated by the light of truth, and ex- 
planation triumph over mystery. 

She was herself surprised, afterwards, when she called to mind 
and brought up in long array the numerous household, domestic 
and friendly duties which she almost unconsciously accomplished 
in those few days during which she was wrestling with thoughts 
that were ever struggling to be uppermost, and were only kept 
down by a force of will that was almost exhausting. 

She dusted and rearranged every book in Mr. Graham’s exten- 
sive library; unpacked and put in their appropriate places every 
article of her own and Emily’s long-scattered wardrobe ; aided 
Mrs. Ellis in her labors to restore order to the china-closet and the 
inen-press; and many other neglected or long-postponed duties 
aow found a time for their fulfilment. 

In these praiseworthy efforts to drive away such reflections as 
were fatal to her peace, and employ her hands, at least, if not 
her nearly in such services as might promote the comfort and 
welkbeins: of others, let us leave her for he present. 


CHAPTER XLIH. 


thou neither dost persuade me to seek wealth 
For empire’j sake, nor empire to effect 
For glory’s sake, by all thy argument. 

Milton. 

In a we.l-furnished private parlor of one of those first-clas* 
hctels in which New York city abounds, Philip Amory sat alone. 
It was evening. The window-curtains were drawn, the gas-lamps 
burning brightly, bringing out the gorgeous colors of the gayly- 
tinted carpet and . draperies, and giving a cheerful glow to the 
room, the comfortable appearance of which contrasted strongly 
with the pale countenance and desponding attitude of its solitary 
inmate, who, with his head bowe^ upon his hands, leaned upon a 
table in the centre of the apartment. 

He had sat for nearly an hour in precisely the same position 
without once moving or looking up. With his left hand, upon 
which his forehead rested, he had thrust back the wavy masses of 
his silvered hair, as if their light weight were too oppressive for 
his heated brow ; and the occasional movement of his fingers, as 
they were slowly passed to and fro beneath the graceful curls 
alone gave evidence that he had not fallen asleep. 

Suddenly he started up, straightened his commanding figure 
to its full height, and slowly commenced pacing the room. A 
light knock at the door arrested his measured steps ; a look of 
nervous agitation and annoyance overspread his countenance ; he 
again flung himself into his chair, and, in reply to the servant’s 
announcing “ a gentleman, sir, ” was preparing to say, “ I cannot 
be interrupted,” — but it was too late; the visitor had already 
advanced within the door, which the waiter quietly closed and 
ret* dated. 


TEE LAMPLIGHTER. 


425 


The new comer — a young man — stepped quickly and eagerly 
forward, but checked himself, somewhat abashed at the unexpected 
coldness of the reception he met from his host, who rose slowly 
and deliberately to meet his guest, while the cloud upon his coun- 
tenance and the frigid manner in which he touched the young 
man's cordially-offered hand seemed to imply that the latter’s 
presence was unwelcome. 

“ Excuse me, Mr. Phillips,” said William Sullivan, for it was 
he who had thus unintentionally forced an entrance to the seclud- 
13d man. “ I am afraid my visit is an intrusion.” 

“ Do not speak of it,” replied Mr. Amory. I beg you will be 
seated ; ” and he politely handed a chair. 

Willie availed himself of the offered seat no further than to 
lean lightly upon it with one hand, while he still remained stand- 
ing. “ You are changed, sir,” continued he, “ since I last saw 
you.” 

“ Changed ! Yes, I am,” returned the other, absently. 

“ Your health, I fear, is not — ” 

“ My health is excellent,” said Mr. Amory, interrupting his 
unfinished remark. Then seeming for the first time to realize 
the necessity of exerting himself, in order to sustain the con- 
versation, he added, “ It is a long time, sir, since we met. 1 
have not yet forgotten the debt I owe you for your timely inter- 
ference between me and Ali, that Arab traitor, with his rascally 
army of Bedouin rogues.” 

“ Do not name it, sir,” replied Willie. “ Our meeting was 
fortunate indeed ; but the benefit was as mutual as the danger to 
which we were alike exposed.” 

“ I cannot think so. You seemed to have a most excellent 
understanding with your own party of guides and attendants, 
Arabs though they were.” 

H True ; I have had some experience in Eastern travel, and usually 
know how to manage these inflammable spirits of the desert. But 
at the time I joined you I was myself entering the neighborhood 
of hostile tribes, and might soon have found our party overawed, 
out for the advantage of having joined forces with yourself.” 

11 You set but a modest valur upon your concilia to ry power* 

36 * 


*26 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


*iy young man. To you, who are so well acquainted with the 
facts in the case, I can hardly claim the merit of frankness for 
the acknowledgment that it was only my own hot temper and 
stubborn will which exposed us both to the imminent danger 
which you were fortunately able to avert. No, no ! you must 
not deprive me of the satisfaction of once more expressing my 
gratitude for your invaluable aid.” 

“ You are making my visit, sir,” said Willie, smiling, “ the very 
reverse of what it was intended to be. I did not come here this 
evening to receive, but, to the best of my ability, to render 
thanks.” 

“ For what, sir ? ” asked Mr. Amory, abruptly, almost roughly. 
“ You owe me nothing ! ” 

“ The friends of Isabella Clinton, sir, owe you a debt of grati- 
tude which it will be impossible for them ever to repay.” 

“ You are mistaken, Mr. Sullivan; I have done nothing which 
places that young lady’s friends under a particle of obligation to 
me.” 

“Did you not save her life ? ” 

“Yes; but nothing was further from my intention.” 

Willie smiled ; “ It could have been no accident, I think, which 
led you to risk your own life to rescue a fellow-passenger.” 

“ It was no accident, indeed, which led to Miss Clinton’s safety 
from destruction. I am convinced of that. But you must not 
thank me : it is due to another than myself that she does not now 
sleep in death.” 

“ May I ask to whom you refer ? Your words are mysterious.’ 

“ I refer to a dear and noble girl whom I swam to that burning 
wreck to save. Her veil had been agreed upon as a signal be- 
tween us. That veil, carefully thrown over the head of Miss 
Clinton, whom I found clinging to the spot assigned to — to her 
whom I was seeking, deceived me, and I bore in safety to the 
shore the burden which I had ignorantly seized from the gaping 
waters, leaving my own darling, who had offered her life as a 
sacrifice, to — ” 

“ O ot to die ! ’ exclaimed Willie. 


THE LAMP LIGHTER. 


VZ1 


“ No ; vO be sa*ed by a miracle. Go thank her for Miss Clin- 
ton’s life ” 

“ I thank God,” said Willie, with fervor, “ that the horrors of 
ouch scenes of destruction are half redeemed by heroism like 
that.” 

The hitherto stern countenance of Mr. Amory softened as he 
listened to the young man’s enthusiastic outburst of admiration at 
Gertrude’s noble self-devotion. 

“ Who is she ? Where is she ? ” continued Willie. 

“ Ask me not ! ” replied Mr. Amory, with a gesture of impa- 
tience ; “I cannot tell you, if I would. I have not seen her 
since that ill-fated day.” 

His manner, even more than his words, seemed to intimate an 
unwillingness to enter into any further explanation regarding 
Isabel’s rescue, and Willie, perceiving it, stood for a moment silent 
and irresolute. Then, advancing a step nearer, he said, 

“ Though you so utterly disclaim, Mr. Phillips, any participa- 
tion in Miss Clinton’s happy escape, I feel that my errand here 
would be but imperfectly fulfilled if 1 should fail to deliver the 
message which I bring to one who was, at least, the final means, 
if not the original cause, of her safety. Mr. Clinton, the young 
lady’s father, desired me to tell you that, in saving the life of his 
only surviving child, the last of seven, all of whom but herself 
were doomed to an early death, you have prolonged his own 
days, and rendered him grateful to that degree which words on 
his part are powerless to express ; but that, as long as his feeble 
life is spared, he shall never cease to bless your name, and pray to 
Heaven for its choicest gifts upon you and those who dwell next 
your heart.” 

There was a slight moisture in the clear, penetrating eye of 
Mr. Amory, but a bland and courteous smile upon his lip, as he 
said, in reply to Willie’s words : 

“ All this from Mr. Clinton ! Very gentlemanly, and equally 
siucere, I doubt not ; but you surely do not mean to thank me 
wholly in his name, my young friend. Have you nothing to say 
for your own sake ? ” 

Willie looked surprised at the question :at replied, unhefi 


428 


THE I AMTLT3II7EK. 


tatingly, “ Certainly, sir; as one of a large circle of acquaintance* 
and friends, whom Miss Clinton honors with her regard, you ma) 
rest assured that my admiration and gratitude for ^our disinter- 
ested exertions are unbounded ; and, not only on her account, but 
on that of every other whom you had the noble satisfaction of 
rescuing from a most terrific form of death and destruction.” 

“ Am I to understand, by your words, that you speak only as a 
friend of humanity, and that you felt no deep personal interest in 
any of my fellow-passengers ? ” 

“ 1 was unacquainted with nearly all of them. Miss Clinton 
was the only one whom I had known for any greater length of 
time than during two or three days of Saratoga intercourse ; but 
I should certainly have felt deeply grieved at her death, since I 
was in the habit of meeting her familiarly in her childhood, have 
lately been continually in her society, and am aware that her 
father, my respected partner, an old and invaluable friend, who 
is now much enfeebled in health, could hardly have survived so 
severe a shock as the loss, under such harrowing circumstances, of 
an only child, whom he almost idolizes.” 

“ You speak very coolly, Mr. Sullivan. Are you aware that 
the prevailing belief gives you credit for feeling more than a 
mere friendly interest in Miss Clinton ? ” 

The gradual dilating of Willie’s large gray eyes, as he fixed 
them inquiringly upon Mr. Amory, — the half-scrutinizing, half- 
astonished expression which crept over his face, as he deliberately 
seated himself in the chair, which, until then, he had not occu- 
pied, — were sufficient evidence of the effect of the question so 
unexpectedly put to him. 

“ Sir,’ said he, “ I either misunderstood you, or the prevailing 
belief is a most mistaken one.” 

“ Then you never before heard of your own engagement ? ” 

“ Never, I assure you. Is it possible that so idle a report has 
obtained an extensive circulation among Miss Clinton’s friends ? ” 

“ Sufficiently extensive for me, a mere spectator of Saratoga 
life, to hear it not only whimpered from ear to ear, but )penty 
proclaimed as a fact worthy cf credit.” 

“ I am exceedingly sui prised and vexed at what you tell me/ 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


42b 


said Wilks, looking really disturbed and chagrined. “ Non- 
sensical and - false as such a rumor is, it will very naturally, if it 
should reach Miss Clinton, be a source of indignation and annoy 
ance to her ; and it is on that account, far more than my own, 
that I regret the circumstances which have probably given rise 
to it.” 

“ Do you refer to considerations of delicacy on the lady’s part, 
or have you the modesty to believe that her pride would be 
wounded by having her name thus coupled with that of her 
father’s junior partner, a young man hitherto unknown to fash- 
ionable circles ? But, excuse me ; perhaps I am stepping on 
dangerous ground, and your own pride may shrink from the 
frankness of my speech.” 

“ By no means, sir ; you wrong me if you believe my pride to 
be of such a nature. But, in answer to your question, I have 
not only reference to both the motives you name, but to many 
others, when I assert my opinion of the resentment Miss Clinton 
would probably cherish, if the foolish and unwarranted remarks 
you mention should chance to reach her ears.” 

“ Mr. Sullivan,” said Mr. Amory, drawing his chair nearer to 
Willie’s, and speaking in a tone of great interest, “ are you sure 
you are not standing in your own light ? Are you aware that 
undue modesty, coupled with false and overstrained notions of 
refinement, has before now stood in the way of many a man’s 
good fortune, and is likely to interfere largely with your 
own ? ” 

“ How so, sir ? You speak in riddles, and I am ignorant of 
your meaning.” 

“ Handsome young fellows, like you,” continued Mr. Amory, 
“ can, I know, often command almost any amount of property for 
the asking ; but many such chances rarely occur to one individ- 
ual ; and the world will laugh at you, if you waste so fair an 
opportunity as that which you now enjoy.” 

“ Opportunity for what ? You surelv do not mean to advise 
me — ” 

“ I dc, though. I am older than you arc, and I know some- 
thing of the wc rid. A fortune is not made ir a day nor m monev 


430 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


a thing to b* despised. Mr. Clinton’s life is, I dare say, enfeebled 
and almost worn out in toiling after that wealth which will soon 
be the inheritance of his daughter. She is young, beautiful, and 
the pride of that high circle in which she moves. Both father 
and daughter smile upon you; — you need not look disconcerted, 
— I speak as between friends, and you know the truth of that 
which strangers have observed, and which I have frequently heard 
mentioned as beyond doubt. Why, then, do you hesitate ? I 
trust you are not deterred from taking advantage of your position 
by any romantic and chivalrous sense of inferiority on your part, 
or unworthiness to obtain so fair a prize.” 

“ Mr. Phillips,” said Willie, with hesitation, and evident em- 
barrassment, “ the comments of mere casual acquaintances, such 
as the greater part of those with whom Miss Clinton associated 
in Saratoga, are not in the least to be depended upon. The 
?3eculiar relations in which 1 stand towards Mr. Clinton have 
been such as of late to draw me into constant intercourse both 
with himself and his daughter. He is almost entirely without 
relatives, has scarcely any trustworthy friend at command, and 
therefore appears, perhaps, to the world more favorably disposed 
towards me than would be found to be the case should I aspire to 
his daughter’s hand. The lady herself, too, has so many admirers, 
that it would be the height of vanity in me to believe — ” 

“ Pooh, pooh ! ” exclaimed Mr. Phillips, springing from his 
chair, and, as he commenced pacing the room, clapping the young 
man heartily upon the shoulder, “ tell that, Sullivan, to a greater 
novice, a more unsophisticated individual, than I am ! It is very 
becoming in you to say so ; but (though I hate to flatter) a few 
slight reminders will hardly harm a youth who has such a very 
low opinion of his own merits. Pray, who was the gentleman 
for whose society Miss Clinton was, a few nights since, so ready to 
forego the music of Alboni, the brilliancy of the well-lighted and 
crowded hall, and the smiles and compliments of a whole train of 
adorers ? With whom, I say, did she, in comparison with all this, 
prefer a quiet moonlight walk in the garden of the United States 
4otel ? ’ 

Millie hesitated a moment, while endeavoring to rally his 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


431 


recollection; then, as if the circumstance and its consequences 
had just flashed uoon him, he exclaimed, “ I remember ! — That, 
then, was one of tne causes of suspicion. I was, on that occasion, 
a messenger merely, to summon Miss Isabel to the bed-side of her 
father, by whom I had been anxiously watching for hours, and 
who, on awakening from a long-protracted and almost lethargic 
sleep, which had excited the alarm of the physician, inquired for 
his daughter with such eagerness, that I did not hesitate to inter- 
rupt the pleasure of the evening, and call her to the post of duty, 
which awaited her in the cottage occupied by Mr. Clinton, at the 
further extremity of the grounds, to which I accompanied her by 
moonlight.” 

Mr. Amory almost laughed outright, cast upon Willie, for the 
first time, that look of sweet benignity which, though rare, well 
became his fine countenance, and exclaimed, “So much for water- 
ing-place gossip ! I believe I must forbear speaking of any fur- 
ther evidences of a tender interest manifested by either of you. 
But, these things apart, and there is every reason to believe, my 
dear Sullivan, that though the young lady’s heart be still, like 
her fortune, in the united keeping of herself and her father, there 
is nothing easier than for yau to win and claim them both. Yois 
are a rising young man, and possess business talent indispens- 
able, I hear, to the elder party ; if, with your handsome face, fig- 
ure and accomplishments, you cannot render yourself equally so 
to the younger, there is no one to blame but yourself.” 

Willie laughed. “ If I had that object in view, I know of 
no one to whom I would so soon come for encouragement as to 
you, sir ; but the flattering prospect you hold out is quite wasted 
upon me.” 

“ Not if you are the man I think you,” replied Mr. Amory : 

I cannot believe you will be such a fool (I beg your pardon for 
using so strong a term) as to allow yourself to be blinded to the 
opportunity you see held out before you of making that appear- 
ance in society, and taking that stand in life, to which your birth, 
your education and your personal qualities, entitle you. Youi 
father was a respectable clergyman (always an honorable prefer 
siou) ; you enjoyed and profited by every advantage in your youth 


432 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


and have done yourself such credit m India as would enable you 
with plenty of capital at command, to take the lead in a few years 
among mercantile men. All this, indeed, might not, probably 
would not, give you an opportunity to mingle freely and at once 
in the highest ranks of our aristocracy ; but a union with Miss 
Clinton would entitle you immediately to such a position as years 
of assiduous effort could hardly win, and you would find yourself 
at twenty-five at the highest point in every respect to which you 
could possibly aspire ; nor have you, I will venture to say, lived 
for six years utterly deprived of female society, without becoming 
proportionately susceptible to such uncommon grace and bearPy a. 
Miss Clinton’s. 

“ A man just returned from a long residence abroad is usually 
thought to be an easy prey to the charms of the first of his fair 
countrywomen into whose society he may chance to be thrown ; 
and it can scarcely then be wondered at, if you are subdued by 
such winning attractions as are rarely to be met with in this land 
of beautiful women. Nor can it be possible that you have for 
six years toiled beneath an Indian sun without learning to appre- 
ciate as it deserves the unlooked-for but happy and honorable 
termination of your toils, the easily-attained rest from labor, 
whose crowning blessing will be the possession of your beautiful 
bride.” 

A moment’s pause ensued, during which Mr. Amory sat watch- 
ing the countenance of Willie, while he awaited his reply. He 
was not kept long in ignorance of the effect his glowing picture 
Had produced. 

“ Mr. Phillips,” said Willie, speaking with prompt decision, 
and a nervous energy which proved how heart-felt were the words 
he uttered, “ I have not, indeed, spent many of the best years of 
my life toiling beneath a burning sun, and in a protracted exile 
from all that I held most dear, without being sustained and encour- 
aged by high hopes, aims and aspirations. But you misjudge mo 
greatly, if you believe that the ambition that has hitherto spurred 
me on can find its gratification in those rewards which you have so 
vividly presented to my imagination. No, sir ! believe me, though 
these advantages may seem beyond the grasp of most men, I 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


433 


aspire to something higher yet, and should think my best endeav- 
ors wasted indeed, if my hopes and wishes tended not to a still 
oaore glorious good.” 

“And to what quarter do you look for the fulfilment of such 
flattering prospects ? ” asked Mr. Amory, in an ironical tone of voice. 

“Not to the gay circles of fashion,” replied Willie, “nor yet 
to that moneyed aristocracy which awards to each man his posi- 
tion in life. I do not depreciate an honorable standing in the 
eyes of my fellow-men ; I am not blind to the advantages of 
wealth, or insensible to the claims of grace and beauty ; but these 
were not the things for which I left my home, and it is not to 
claim them that I have now returned. Young as I am, I have 
lived long enough, and seen enough of trial, to lay to heart the 
belief that the only blessings worth striving for are something 
more enduring, more satisfying, than doubtful honors, precarious 
wealth, or fleeting smiles.” 

“ To what, then, may I ask, do you look forward? 99 

“ To a home , and that, not so much for myself— though I have 
long pined for such a rest — as for another, with whom I hope to 
share it. A year since,” — and Willie’s lip trembled, his voice 
shook with emotion, as he spoke, — “ and there were others, beside 
that dear one whose image now entirely fills my heart, whom I 
had fondly hoped, and should deeply have rejoiced, to see reaping 
the fruits of my exertions. But we were not permitted to meet 
again ; and now, — but pardon me, sir ; I did not mean to intrude 
upon you my private affairs.” 

“ Gro on,” said Mr. Amory; “ go on ; I deserve some degree of 
confidence, in return for the disinterested advice I have been giv- 
ing you. Speak to me as to an old friend ; I am much interested 
in what you say.” 

“ It is long since I have spoken freely of myself,” said Willie ; 
“ but frankness is natural to me, and, since you profess a desire to 
learn something of my aim in life, I know of no motive I have 
for reserve or concealment. But my position, sir, even as a child, 
was singular; and you must excuse me if I refer to it for a 
moment. I could not have been more than twelve or fourteen 
years of age when I began to realize the necessity which rested 


434 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


upon me. My widowed mother and her aged father were the 
only relatives, almost the only friends, I knew. One was feeble, 
delicate, and quite unequal to active exertion ; the other was old 
and poor, being wholly dependent upon • the small salary he 
received for officiating as sexton of a neighboring church. You 
are aware, for I have mentioned it in our earlier acquaintance 
abroad, that, in spite of these circumstances, they maintained me 
for several years in comfort and decency, and gave me an excel- 
lent education. 

“ At an age when kites and marbles are wont to be all-engross- 
ing I became possessed with an earnest desire to relieve my 
mother and grandfather of a part of their burden of care and 
labor; and, with this purpose in view, sought and obtained a 
situation, in which I was well treated and well paid, and which 
I retained until the death of my excellent master. Then, for a 
time, I felt bitterly the want of employment, became desponding 
and unhappy; a state of mind which was fostered by constant 
association with one of so melancholy and despairing a tempera- 
ment as my grandfather, who, having met with great disappoint- 
ment in life, held out no encouragement to me, but was forever 
hinting at the probability of my utterly failing in eveiy scheme 
for success and advancement. 

“I bitterly regretted, at the time, the depressing influence of 
the old man’s innuendoes ; but I have since thought they answered 
a good purpose ; for nothing urged me on to ever-increasing 
efforts as the indomitable desire to prove the mistaken nature of 
his gloomy predictions, and few things have given me more satis- 
faction than the assurances I have frequently received during 
the few past years that he came at last to a full conviction that my 
prosperity was established beyond a doubt, and that one of his ill- 
fated family was destined to escape the trials and evils of poverty. 

“ My mother was a quiet, gentle woman, small in person, with 
great simplicity and some reserve of manner. She loved me like 
her own soul ; she taught me everything I know of goodness ; 
there is no sacrifice I would not have made for her happiness. I 
would have died to save her life ; but we shall never meet again in 
this world, and I — I — am learning to be resigned ! 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


435 


” For these two, and one other, whom I shall speak of pres* 
iently, I was ready to go away, and strive and suffer and be 
patient. The opportunity came, and I embraced it, And soon 
One great object of my ambition was won. I was able to earn a 
competency for myself and for them. In the course of time, lux- 
iries even were within my means, and I had begun to look forward 
to a not very distant day, when my long-looked-for return should 
render our happiness perfect and complete. I little thought, then, 
that the sad tidings of my grandfather’s death were on their way, 
and the news of my mother’s slow but equally sure decline so 
soon to follow. 

‘ It is true, however, they are both gone ; and I should now be 
so solitary as almost to long to follow them, but for one other, 
whose love will bind me to earth so long as she is spared.” 

“ And she ? ” exclaimed Mr. Amory, with an eagerness which 
Willie, engrossed with his own thoughts, did not observe. 

“ Is a young girl,” continued Willie, u without family, wealth, 
or beauty ; but with a spirit so elevated as to make her groat, a 
heart so noble as to make her rich, a soul so pure as to make her 
beautiful.” 

Mr. Amory ’s attitude of fixed attention, his evident waiting to 
hear more, emboldened Willie to speak still further. 

“There lived in the same house which my grandfather occu- 
pied an old man, a city lamplighter. He was poor, poorer even 
than we were, but, I will venture to say, there never was a better 
or a kinder-hearted person in the world. One evening, when 
engaged in his round of duty, he picked up and brought home a 
little ragged child, whom a cruel woman had just thrust into the 
street to perish with cold, or die a more lingering death in the 
alms-house ; for nothing but such devoted care as she received from 
my mother and Uncle True (so we always called our old friend) 
could have saved the feeble, half-starved creature from the conse- 
quences of long-continued exposure and ill-treatment. Through 
their unwearied watching and efforts she was spared, to repay in 
after years all, and more than all, the love bestowed upon her. 
She was at that time miserably thin and attenuated, sallow, and 
extremely plain in her appearance, besides being possessed of a 


436 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


violent temper, which she had never been taught to restrain, and 
a stubbornness of will, which undoubtedly resulted from her hav« 
ing long lived in opposition to all the world. 

“All this, however, did not repel Uncle True, under whose 
loving influence new and hitherto undeveloped virtues and capaci- 
ties soon began to manifest themselves. In the atmosphere of 
love in which she now lived, she soon became a changed being; 
and when, in addition to the example and precepts taught her at 
home, a divine light was shed upon her life by one who, herself 
sitting in darkness, casts a halo forth from her own spirit to illu- 
mine those of all who are blessed with her presence, she became 
what she has ever since been, a being to love and trust for a life- 
time. For myself, there were no bounds to the affection I soon 
came to cherish for the little girl, to whom I was first attracted 
by compassion merely. 

“We were constantly together ; we had no thoughts, no studies, 
no pleasures, sorrows, or interests that were not shared. I was 
her teacher, her protector, the partner of all her childish amuse- 
ments; and she, on her part, was by turns an advising, con- 
soling, sympathizing, and encouraging friend. In this latter 
character she was indispensable to me, for she had a hopeful 
nature, and a buoyancy of spirit which often imparted itself to me. 
I well remember when my kind employer died, and 1 was plunged 
in boyish grief and despair, the confidence and energy with 
which she, then very young, inspired me. The relation between 
her and Uncle True was beautiful. Boy as I was, I could not 
but view with admiration the old man’s devoted love for the 
adopted darling of his latter years (his birdie, as he always called 
her), and the deep and grateful affection which she bore him in 
return. 

“ During the first few years she was wholly dependent upon 
him, and seemed only a fond, affectionate child ; but a time came, 
at last, when the case was reversed, and the old man, stricken 
with disease, became infirm and helpless. It was then that the 
beauty of her woman’s nature shone forth triumphant ; imd, 0, 
how gently, child as she was, she guided his steps as he descended 
to the grave ! Often have I got** ^ room at midnight, fearing 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


487 


lest he might be in need of care which she, in her youth and in- 
experience, would be unable to render, and never shall I forget the 
little figure, seated calmly by his bed-side, at an hour when many 
of her years would be shrinking from fears conjured up by the 
night and the darkness, with a lamp dimly burning on a table be- 
fore her, and she herself, with his hand in hers, sweetly soothing 
his wakefulness by her loving words, or with her eyes bent upon 
her little Bible, reading to him holy lessons. 

“ But all her care could not prolong his life ; and, shortly be- 
fore I went to India, he died, blessing. God for the peace imparted 
to him through his gentle nurse. 

“ It was my task to soothe our little Gerty’s sorrows, and do 
what I could to comfort her; an office which, before I left the 
country, I was rejoiced to transfer to the willing hands of the 
excellent blind lady who had long befriended both her and Uncle 
True. Before I went away, I solemnly committed to Gerty, 
who had in one instance proved herself both willing and able, 
the care of my mother and grandfather. She promised to be 
faithful to the trust ; and nobly was that promise kept. In spite 
of the unkindness and deep displeasure of Mr. Graham (the blind 
lady’s father), upon whose bounty she had for a long time been 
dependent, she devoted herself heart and hand to the fulfilment 
of duties which in her eyes were sacred and holy. In spite of 
suffering, labor, watching, and privation, she voluntarily forsook 
ease and pleasure, and spent day and night in the patient service 
of friends whom she loved with a greater love than a daughter’s, 
for it was that of a saint. 

“ With all my earnestness of purpose, I could never have done 
half that she did ; I might have loved as much, but none but 
a woman’s heart could have conceived and planned, none but 
a woman’s hand could have patiently executed, the deeds that 
Gertrude wrought. She was more than a sister to me beffire; 
she was my constant correspondent, my dearest friend ; now she is 
bound to me by ties that are not of earth nor of time.” 

37 * 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


And opportunity I here have had 

To try thee, sift thee, and confess have found thee 

Proof against all temptation. 

Milton 

u 'Certainly,” said Mr. Amory, who had waited patiently fox 
th« conclusion of Willie’s story, 4 4 1 can well understand that. A 
man of a generous spirit could hardly fail to cherish a deep and 
lasting gratitude for one who devoted herself so disinterestedly to 
a trying and toilsome attendance upon the last hours of beloved 
friends, to whose wants he himself was prevented from minister- 
ing ; and the warmth with which you eulogize this girl does you 
credit, Sullivan. She must, too, be a young person of great excel- 
lence, to have fulfilled so faithfully and well a promise of such 
remote date that it would probably have been ignored by a less 
disinterested friend. But do not let any enthusiastic sense of 
honor induce you to sacrifice yourself on the shrine of gratitude. 

44 1 shall find it hard to believe that a young man who has had 
the ambition to mark out, and the energy to pursue, such a course, 
on the road to fortune as you have thus far successfully followed, 
can, in his sober senses, have made a serious resolve to unite him- 
self and his prospects with an insignificant little playmate, of 
unacknowledged birth, without beauty or fortune, unless there is 
already a standing engagement, by which he is unwillingly bound, 
or he allows himself to be drawn on to matrimony by the belief 
that the highest compliment he can pay (namely, the offer of him- 
self) will alone cancel the immense obligations under which ho 
labors. May I ask if you are already shackled by promises ? ” 

“I am not,” replied Willie. 

44 Then listen to me a moment. My motives are friendly when 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


139 


I beg you not to act rashly in a matter which will affect the hap« 
piness of your whole life ; and to hear, — with patience, too, if you 
can,” for Willie already gave symptoms of restlessness; “ the 
few words which I have to say on the subject. 

“ You are much mistaken, my young friend, if you believe that 
*he happiness of Gerty, as you call her (a very ugly name, by 
the way), can be insured, any more than your own, by an ill* 
assorted union, of which you will both find occasion to repent. 
You have not seen her for six years ; think, then, of all that 
has happened in the mean time, and beware how you act with 
precipitation. 

“You have all this time been living abroad, engaged in active 
life, growing in knowledge of the world, and its various phases 
of society. In India, to be sure, you witnessed a mode of life 
wholly different from that which prevails with us, or in European 
cities; but the independence, both of character and manner, 
which you there acquired, fitted you admirably for the polished 
sphere of Parisian life, to which you were so suddenly intro- 
duced, and in which, I may say without flattery, you met with 
such marked success. 

“ Notwithstanding the privilege you enjoyed of being pre- 
sented in polite circles as the friend of a man so well known and 
so much respected as Mr. Clinton, you cannot have been insensi- 
ble to the marked attentions bestowed upon you by American resi- 
dents abroad, or unaware of the advantage you enjoyed, on your 
return home, from having been known as the object of such 
favor. Though not so fortunate as to meet you in Paris, I was 
there at the same time with yourself and had some opportunity of 
being acquainted with facts which I am sure you would have too 
much modesty to acknowledge. 

4 5 That you were not wholly devoid of taste for choice society it 
is easy to infer ; since, otherwise, you would never have been able 
to render yourself an ornament to it, or even maintain a place 
within its precincts. It is also equally evident that your pride must 
have been flattered, ami your views in life somewhat biased, by 
the favorable reception you have met, both abroad and at home, 
not only from your own sex, but especially from the young, fair, 


440 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


and beautiful women who have honored you with the ir smile?,, and 
among whom she whose name the crowd already associates with 
your own stands pre-eminent. 

“ When I think of all this, and of those pecuniary hopes you 
may so reasonably indulge, and on which I have already dilated, 
and then imagine you suddenly flinging all these aside, to chival- 
rously throw yourself at the feet of your mother’s little nurse, I 
confess I find it impossible to keep silent, and avoid reminding 
you of the reaction that must come, the disappointment that must 
ensue, on finding yourself at once and forever shut uut from par- 
ticipation in pleasures which have been within y^uv reach, and 
voluntarily discarded. 

“ You must remember that much of the consideration which is 
paid to a young bachelor of growing prospects ceases to be 
awarded to him after marriage, and is never extended to his 
bride, unless she be chosen from the seLct circles to which he 
aspires. This unportioned orphan, wito whom you propose to 
share your fate, — this little patient school-mistress — ” 

“ I did not tell you she had ever oeen a teacher ! ” exclaimed 
Willie, stopping short in his walk up and down the room, which 
latterly he had been, in his turn, pacing impatiently, while he lis- 
tened to Mr. Amory’s words, — ■ 1 did not tell you anything of 
the sort ! Iiow did you know it ’? ” 

Mr. Amory, who by his negligence had thus betrayed more 
knowledge than he had been supposed to possess, hesitated a 
moment, but quickly recovering himself, answered, with apparent 
frankness, — 

u To tell the truth, Sullivan, I have seen the girl, in company 
with an old doctor.” 

“Dr. Jeremy?” asked Willie, quickly. 

“ The same.” 

“ When did you see her? How did it happen f" 

“ Do not question me ! ” said Mr. Amory, petulantly, as if the 
matter were of little consequence, and he did not choose to be 
interrogated. “I happened to see the old gentleman in tho 
course of my travels, and this Gertrude Flint w.as with him. He 
told me a few facts coneerni**g her ; — nothing to her disadvantage, 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


441 


however; in warring you against a mis-alliance, I speak only in 
general terms.” 

Willie looked at Mr. Amory in a half-scrutinizing, half-won* 
dering manner, and appeared on the point of persisting in his 
attempt to learn further particulars ; but Mr. Amory, taking up 
the thread of his previous conversation, went on, without giving 
him a chance to speak. 

“ This Grerty, as I was saying, Sullivan, will be a dead weight 
upon your hands, a constant drawback to all your efforts for the 
attainment of fashionable society, in which it is hardly to be 
expected she can be exactly fitted to shine. You yourself pro- 
nounce her to be without wealth or beauty ; of her family you 
know nothing, and have certainly little reason to expect that, if 
discovered, it would' do her any credit. I believe, then, that I 
only speak from the dictates of common sense, when I bid you 
beware how you make, in the disposal of yourself, such a very 
unequal bargain.” 

“1 am very willing to believe, sir,” said Willie, resuming his 
seat and settling himself into a composed attitude, “that the ar- 
guments you have so powerfully brought to bear upon a question 
most important to my welfare, are grounded upon calm reasoning, 
and a disinterested desire to promote my prosperity. I confess 
you are the last man, judging from our short, but, for the length 
of time, intimate acquaintance, from whom I should have ex- 
pected such advice ; for I had believed you so independent of the 
opinion and so indifferent to the applause of the world, that they 
would weigh but little with you in forming estimates for the guid« 
ance of others. 

“ Still, though your suggestions have failed to influence or in 
the least degree change my sentiments or intentions, I fully appre- 
ciate and thank you for the sincerity and earnestness with which 
you have sought to mould my judgment by your own, and will 
reply to your arguments with such frankness as will, I think, per- 
suade you that, so far from following the impulses of a blind enthu- 
siasm, to plunge with haste and precipitation into a course of action 
hereafter to be deplored, I am actuated by feelings which reason 
approves, and which have already stoed the test of experience. 


442 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


“ You speak truly when you impute to me a natural taste for 
good society ; a taste winch poverty, and die retirement in which 
my boyhood was passed, gave me little opportunity to manifest, 
but which had, nevertheless, no small influence in determining my 
aims and ambition in life. The fine houses, equipages, and clo:hes 
of the rich, had far less charm to my fancy than the high-bred 
ease, refinement, and elegance of manner, which distinguished 
some few of their owners who chanced to come under my observa- 
tion ; and, much as I desired the attainment of wealth for the sake 
of its own intrinsic advantages, and the means it would affird of 
contributing to the comfort and happiness of others, it would have 
seemed to me divested of half its value, should it fail to secure to 
its possessor a free admittance to the polite and polished circle# 
upon which I looked with admiring eyes. 

“ I needed not, therefore, the social deprivations I experienced in 
India to prepare me to enter with eager zest into the excitement 
and pleasure of Parisian life, to which, through the kindness and 
partiality of Mr. Clinton, I obtained, as you are, it seems, aware, 
a free and immediate introduction. 

“ It is true I was summoned thither at a time wheii my spirits 
had been for months struggling with the depression occasioned by 
sad news from home, and had not, therefore, the least disposition 
to avail myself of Mr. Clinton’s politeness ; but the feebleness of 
his health, apd his inability to enter largely into the gayeties of 
the place, compelled me continually to offer myself as an escort 
to his daughter, who, fond of society, and reluctant to submit to 
any exclusion from it, invariably accepted my services, thus draw- 
ing me into the very whirl and vortex of fashionable life ; in which, 
I confess, I soon found much to flatter, bewilder, and intoxicate. 
I could not be insensible to the privileges so unexpectedly accorded 
to me ; nor could my vanity be wholly proof against the assaults 
made upon it. Nor was my manliness of character alone at stake. 
My position in fashionable circles threw other and more serious 
temptations in my way. The soundness of principle and sim- 
plicity of habit implanted in me from childhood, and hitherto 
preserved intact, soon found themselves at stake. I had withstood 
«very kind of gross temptation, but my new and refined associates 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


443 


row presented it to me in that more subtle form which often 
proves a snare to those over whom, had it come without disguise, 
it would have no power. The wine-cup could never have enticed 
me to the coarse and disgusting scenes of drunken revelry ; but, 
held in the hands of the polished gentlemen, who had, but a moment- 
before, been the recipients of popular favor and women’s smiles, 
it sparkled with a richer lustre, and its bitter dregs were forgotten. 
The professed gamester, the well-known rogue, would in vain have 
sought me for an accomplice ; but I was not equally on my guard 
against the danger which awaited me from other and unexpected 
quarters; for how could I believe that my friends, Mr. Clinton’s 
friends, the ornaments of the sphere in which they moved, would 
unfairly win my money, involve me in entanglements, and lead me 
on to ruin ? I almost wonder, as 1 look back upon the few first 
weeks of my residence in Paris, that I did not finally fall a victim 
to some one of the numerous snares that were, on every side 
spread for my destruction, and into which my social disposition, 
my fearless, and, at the same time, unsophisti ated nature rendered 
me especially prone to fall. Nothing, I am persuaded, but the 
recollection of my pure-minded and watchful mother, whose recent 
death had given new freshness and life to the memory of her many 
warning counsels, — at the time they were bestowed deemed by 
me unnecessary, but now, in the moment of danger, springing up 
and arming themselves with a solemn meaning, — nothing but the 
consciousness of her gentle spirit, ever hovering around my path, 
saddened by my conflicts, rejoicing in my triumphs, could ever 
have given me courage and perseverance to resist, shun, and 
finally escape altogether, the pitfalls into which my unwary steps 
would have plunged me. 

“These darker evils, however, successfully combated and sub- 
dued, there were others of scarcely less magnitude awaiting me, 
and in which much of my future well-being and usefulness were 
involved. In the unvaried round of pleasure in which my days, 
and nights even, were frequently passed, there was much to grat- 
ify my self-love, foster my ambition, and annihilate every worthier 
smotion. And here, believe me, my safety lay in my success. 
Had I approached the outskirts of fashionable life, and been com- 


444 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


pelled to linger, with longing eyes, at the threshold, I might, even 
now, be loitering there, a deceived spectator of joys which it was 
not permitted to me to enter and share, or, having gained a partial 
entrance, be eagerly employed in pushing my way onward. 

“ Admitted, however, at once, into the very arcana of a sphere 
I was eager to penetrate, my eyes were soon opened to the vain, 
hollow, and worthless nature of the bauble Fashion. Not that 1 
did not meet within its courts the grace, wit, talent, and refine- 
ment which I had hoped to find there, or that these were invari* 
ably accompanied by other and less attractive qualities. No; 1 
truly believe there is no class which cannot boast of its heroes and 
heroines, and that there are within the walks of fashionable life 
men and women who would grace a wilderness. Nor do I despise 
forms and ceremonies which are becoming in themselves, and con- 
ducive to elegance and good-breeding. As long as one class is 
distinguished by education and refined manners, and another is 
marked by ignorance and vulgarity, there should, and there must, 
in the nature of things, be a dividing line between the two, which 
neither, perhaps, would desire to overstep. 

“ But this barrier is not Fashion, which, both abroad and at 
home, oftentimes excludes the former, and gives free admittance to 
the latter ; and if I presume to adopt a higher standard, it is be' 
cause I have had so close an acquaintance with that already set 
up, that I can judge how little it is to be trusted.” 

“ You are young,” said Mr. Amory, “to be such a philosopher. 
Many a man has turned away with disgust from an aristocracy into 
which he could himself gain no admittance ; but few renounce it 
voluntarily.” 

“Few, perhaps,” replied Willie, “few young men, at least, 
have such opportunities as I have had to penetrate its secrets. I 
trust I may say without treachery, since I speak in general terms 
only, that I have seen more ignorance, more ill-breeding, more 
meanness, and more immorality, in the so-called aristocracy of oui 
country, than I should have believed it possible would be tolerated 
there. I have frequently known instances in which the most 
accomplished gentleman, or the most beautifu l lady, of a gay 
#’vele, lias given evidence of unpardonable want of information on 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


445 


the most common topics. I have seen elegant evening assemblies 
disgraced by a degree of rudeness and incivility which reflected as 
little credit on the taste as on the feelings. I have seen the pro- 
fuse and lavish expenditure of to-day atoned for by a selfish and 
despicable parsimony on the morrow ; and I have seen a want of 
principle exhibited by persons of both sexes, which proves that a 
high oosition on earth is no security against such contamination of 
the soul as must wholly unfit it for an exalted place hereafter.’ , 

“ I have witnessed no less myself,” said Mr. Amory ; “ but my 
experiences have not been like those of other men, and my sight 
has been sharpened by circumstances. I am still astonished that 
you should have been awake to these facts.” 

“ I was not, at first,” answered Willie. 44 It was only gradually 
that I recovered from the dazzling, blinding effect which the glitter 
and show of Fashion imposed upon the clearness of my perceptions. 
My suspicions of its falsehood and vanity were based upon instan- 
ces of selfishness, folly, and cold-heartedness, which, one after 
another, came to my knowledge. I could relate to you the thou- 
sand mean deceits, the contemptible rivalries, the gross neglect of 
sacred duties, which came under m;y immediate observation ; but I 
will not betray the secrets of individuals, or weary you with their 
recital. 

4i Especially was I astonished at die effect of an uninterrupted 
pursuit of pleasure upon the sensibilities, the tempers, and the 
domestic affections of women. Though bearing within my heart 
an image of female goodness and purltv this sweet remembrance, 
this living ideal, might possibly have beua driven from its throne, 
and supplanted by some one of the lovely faces which at first 
bewildered me by their beauty, had these last been the index to 
souls of equal perfection. There may bo — I have no doubt that 
there are — noble and excellent women moving in the highest 
walks of life, whose beauty, grace, and other outward adornments 
are less admirable than their own high natures ; but among those 
with whom 1 became familiarly acquainted there was not one who 
could in the least compare with her who was continually present 
\o my memory, who is still, and ever must be. a model to her sex. 

*'■ It is no wonder that others failed to come up to my conception 


4U 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


of «tll that is lovely in woman, since the character (f Gertruda 
Fli»t was the standard by which each in my mind was measured. 
Bow could I help contrasting the folly, the worldiiness, and the 
cold-heartedness around me with the cultivated mind, the self- 
sacrifteing and affectionate disposition, of one who possesses every 
(juahty that can adorn life, whether at home or abroad ? You 
have indeed failed to convince me that Gertrude can in any way 
be a drawback or disadvantage to the man who shall be so fortu- 
nate as to call her his. For my own part, I desire no better, no 
more indy aristocratic position in life, than that to which she is so 
well entitled, and to which she would be one of the brightest orna- 
ments, —$he aristocracy of true refinement, knowledge, grace, and 
beauty. You talk to me of wealth. Gertrude has no money in 
her purse, but her soul is the pure gold, tried in the furnace of 
sorrow and affliction, and thence come forth bright and unalloyed. 
You speak of family and an honorable birth. She has no family, 
and her birth is shrouded in mystery ; but the blood that courses 
in her veiite would never disgrace the race from which she sprung, 
and every throb of her unselfish heart allies her to all that is 
noble. 

“ You ars eloquent on the subject of beauty. When I parted 
frcm Gertrude^ she was, in all but character, a mere child, being 
only twelve or thirteen years of ago. Though much altered and 
improved since the time when she first came among us, I scarcely 
think she could have been said to possess much of what the world 
calls beauty. For myself, it was a matter of which I seldom 
thought or cared; and, had I been less indifferent on the subject 
she was so dear to me that I should have been utterly unable to 
form an impartial judgment of her claims in this respect. 

“ I well remember, however, the indignation I once felt at hear- 
ing a fellow-clerk, who had accidentally met her in one of our 
walks, sneeringly contrast her personal appearance with that of 
our mutual employer’s handsome daughter, the same Miss Clinton 
of whom we have been speaking; and the proportionate rapture 
with which I listened to the excellent teacher, Miss Browne , when 
on a certain occasion, being present at a school-examination, I 
overheard her commenting tc a lady upon Gertrude’s wonderful 


TUG LAMPLIGHTER. 


447 


promise in person as well as in mind. Whether the first pa v t of 
this promise has been fulfilled, I have no means of judging ; but, 
as I recall her dignified and graceful little figure, her large, intel- 
ligent, sparkling eyes, the glow of feeling that lit up her whole 
countenance, and the peaceful, almost majestic expression which 
purity of soul imparted to her yet childish features, she stands 
forth to my remembrance the embodiment of all that I hold most 
dear. 

“ Six years may have outwardly changed her much ; but they 
cannot have robbed her of what I prize the most. She has charms 
over which time can have no power, a grace that is a gift of Heaven, 
a beauty that is eternal. Could I ask for more ? 

“ Ho not believe, then,” continued he, after a short pause, “ that 
my fidelity to my early playmate is an emotion of gratitude merely ; 
It is true I owe her much, — far more than I can ever repay j 
but the honest warmth of my affection for the noble girl springs 
from the truest love of a purity of character and singleness of 
heart which I have never seen equalled. 

“ What is there in the wearisome and foolish walks of Fashion, 
the glitter and show of wealth, the homage of an idle crowd, that 
could so fill my heart, elevate my spirit, and inspire my exertions, 
as the thought of a peaceful, happy home, blessed by a presiding 
spirit so formed for confidence, love, and a communion that time 
can never dissolve, and eternity will but render more secure and 
unbroken ? ” 

“ And she whom you love so well? — are you sure — ” asked 
Mr. Phillips, speaking with visible effort, and faltering ere he had 
completed his sentence. 

“ No,” answered Willie, anticipating the question. “I know 
what you would ask. I am not sure. I have no reason to 
indulge the hopes I have been dwelling upon so fondly ; but I do 
not regret having spoken with such openness and candor; for, 
should she grieve my heart by her coldness, I should still be proud 
to have loved her. Until this time, ever since I gained my native 
land, I have been shackled by duties, which, sacred as they were, 
have chafed a spirit longing for freedom to follow its own im- 
pulses. In this visit to you, sir,” and, as he spoke, he rose to de- 


448 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


part, “ I have fulfilled the last obligation imposed upon me by mj 
excellent friend, and to-morrow I shall be at liberty to go where 
duty alone prevented me from at once hastening.” 

He offered his hand to Mr. Amory, who grasped it with a cor- 
diality very different from the feeble greeting he had given him on 
his entrance. “ Good-by,” said he. “You carry with you my 
best wishes for a success which you seem to have so much at 
heart ; but some day or other I feel sure you will be reminded of 
all I have said to you this evening.” 

“ Strange man ! ” thought Willie, as he walked towards his own 
hotel. “How warmly he shook my hand at parting! and with 
what a friendly manner he bade me farewell, notwithstanding the 
coldness of the reception he gave me, and the pertinacity with 
which, throughout my whole Twit, I rejei't*^ his opinions and re- 
pelled his advice ! ,r 


CHAPTER XL V. 


Yet *t Is a weary task to school the heart, 

Ere years of griefs have tamed its fiery spirit 
Into that still and passive fortitude 
Which is but learned from suffering. 

Hemans. 

“Miss Gertrude, ” said Mrs. Prime, opening the parlor-door, 
putting her head cautiously in, looking round, and then advancing 
with a stealthy pace, like that of a favorite family cat which is 
venturing to step a little beyond its usual limits, — “ my ! how 
busy you are ! Lor’s sakes alive, if you an’t rippin’ up them great 
curtains of Miss Graham’s for the wash ! I wouldn’t be botherin’ 
with ’em, Miss Gertrude ; she won’t be here for this fortnight, and 
Miss Ellis will have time enough.” 

“ 0, I have nothing else to do, Mrs. Prime; it’s no trouble.” 
Then, looking up pleasantly at the old cook, she added, “ It 
6eems very cosey for us all to be at home again ; does n’t it? ” 

“ It seems beautiful ! ” answered Mrs. Prime, with emphasis ; 
“ and — I hope there’s no harm in sayin’ it — I can’t help thinkin’ 
how nice it would be, if we could all live on jist as we are now, 
without no more intrusions.” 

Gertrude smiled, and said, “ Everything looks as it used to in 
old times, when I first came here. I was quite a child then,” 
continued she, with a sigh. 

“ Gracious me ! What are you now ? ” said Mrs. Prime. “ For 
mercy’s sake, Miss Gertrude, don’t you begin to think about 
growin’ old ! There’s nothing like feeling young, to keep young. 
There’s Miss Patty Pace, now — ” 

“ I have been meaning to ask after her,” exclaimed Gertrude, 
resuming her scissors, and commencing to rip another window 
curtain. “ Is she alive and well yet ? ” 


450 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


“ She ! ” replied Mrs. Prime; “ lor, she won’t never die ! Old 
women like her, that feels themselves young gals, allers live for- 
ever ; but I came a purpose to speak to you about her. The 
baker’s boy that fetched the loaves, this mornin’, brought an 
arrant from her, and she wants to see you the first chance she can 
get ; but I would n’t hurry, either, about goin’ there, or any- 
where, Miss Gertrude, till I got rested ; for I believe you an’t 
well, you look so spent and kind o’ tired out.” 

“Did she wish to see me?” asked Gertrude. “Poor old 
thing ! I’ll go and see her, this very afternoon ; and you need n’t 
feel anxious about me, Mrs. Prime, — I am quite well.” 

And Gertrude went. It was now her second day of suspense ; 
and this, like every other motive for action, was eagerly hailed. 

She found Miss Patty nearly bent double with rheumatism, 
dressed with less than her usual care, and crouching over a mis- 
erable fire, built of a few chips and shavings. She appeared, how- 
ever, to be in tolerable spirits, and hailed Gertrude’s entrance by 
a cordial greeting. 

The curiosity for which she was always remarkable seemed to 
have increased, rather than diminished, with the infirmities of age. 
Innumerable were the questions she put to Gertrude regarding her 
own personal experiences during the past year, and the move- 
ments of the circles in which she had been living. She showed a 
special interest in Saratoga, life, the latest fashions exhibited there, 
and the opportunities which the place afforded for forming advan- 
tageous matrimonial connections. 

“So you have nDt yet chosen a companion,” said she, after 
Gertrude had patiently and good-naturedly responded to all her 
queries. “ That is a circumstance to be regretted. Not,” con- 
tinued she, with a little smirk, and a slight wave of the hand, 
“that it is ever too late in life for one to meditate the conjugal 
tie, which is often assumed with advantage by persons of fifty or 
more ; and certainly you, who are still in the bloom of your days, 
need not despair of a youthful swain. However, existence, I may 
gay, is two-fold when it is shared with a congenial partner ; and 
I had hoped that before now, Miss Gertrude, both you and myself 
would have formed such an alliance. Experience prompts me, 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


451 


when 1 declare the protection of the matrimonial union one of its 
greatest ad vantages.” 

“ I hope you have not suffered from the want of it,” said Ger- 
trude. 

“ I have, Miss Gertrude, suffered incalculably. Let me impress 
upon you, however, that the keenest pangs have been those of the 
sensibilities ; yes, the sensibilities, — the finest part of our nature, 
and that which will least bear wounding.” 

“I am sorry to hear that you have been thus grieved,” said 
Gertrude. “ I should have supposed that, living quite alone, you 
might have been spared this trial.” 

0, Miss Gertrude ! ” exclaimed the old lady, lifting up both 
hands, and speaking in such a pitiable tone as would have excited 
&e compassion of her listener, if it had been one grain less ridicu- 
lous, — “ 0, that I had wings of a dove, wherewith to flee away 
from my kindred ! I fondly thought to have distanced them, but 
within the last revolving year they have discovered my retreat, and 
I can no longer elude their vigilance. Hardly can I recover from 
the shock of one visitation, — made, as I am convinced, for the 
sole purpose of taking an inventory of my possessions, and meas- 
uring the length of my days, — before the vultures are again seen 
hovering round my dwelling. But,” exclaimed the old lady, rais- 
ing her voice and inwardly chuckling as she spoke, “ they shall fall 
into their own snare ; for I will dupe every one of them, yet ! ” 

“ I was not aware that you had any relations,” said Gertrude ; 
“ and it seems they are such only in name.” 

“Name!” said Miss Pace, emphatically. “I am animated 
with gladness at the thought that they are not honored with a 
cognomen which not one of them is worthy to bear. No, they pass 
by a different name ; a name as plebeian as their own coarse souls. 
There are three of them, who stand to each other in a fraternal 
relation, and all are alike hateful to me. One, a contemptible 
coxcomb, comes here to overawe me with his presence, which he 
conceives to be imposing ; calls me aunt — aunt; thus testifying 
by his speech to a consanguinity which he blindly fancies makes 
him nearer aki» to my property ! ” The cld lady, excited to wrath, 


452 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


almost shrieked the last word. “ And the other two/’ continued 
she, with equal heat, “are beggars ! always were, — always will 
be, — let ’em be, — I’m glad of it ! 

“ You hear me, Miss Gertrude; you are a young lady of quick 
comprehension, and I avail myself of your contiguity; which, 
although you deny the charge, may shortly be interrupted by 
some eager lover, to request at your hands a favor, such as I little 
thought once I should ever feel compelled to seek. I want you — 
I sent for you to write,” Miss Patty lowered her voice to a whisper, 
“ the last will and testament of Miss Patty Pace.” 

The poor woman’s trembling voice evidenced a deep compas- 
sion for herself, which Gertrude could not help sharing ; and she 
expressed a willingness to comply with her wishes as far as was 
in her power, at the same time declaring her utter ignorance of 
all the forms of law. 

To Gertrude’s astonishment, Miss Patty announced her own 
perfect acquaintance with all the legal knowledge which the case 
demanded ; and in so complete and faultless a manner did she 
dictate the words of the important instrument, that, being after- 
wards properly witnessed, signed, and sealed, it was found at the 
end of a few months, — at which time Miss Patty was called upon 
to give up her earthly trust, — free from imperfection and flaw, and 
proved a satisfactory direction for the disposal of the inheritance. 

It may be' as well to State here, however, that he who was pro- 
nounced sole heir to her really valuable property never availed 
himself of the bequest, otherwise than to make a careful bestowal 
of it among the most needy and worthy of her relatives. Not- 
withstanding the protestations of several respectable individuals 
who were present at the attestation of the document, all of whom 
pronounced Miss Patty sane and collected to her last moments, 
he never would believe that a sound mind could have made so 
wild and erratic a disposal of the hardly-earned and carefully-pre- 
served savings of years. 

This sole inheritor of her estates was William Sullivan, the 
knight of tho rosy countenance ; and the same chivalrous spirit 
which won Miss Patty’s virgin heart, and gained for him her 
lasting favor, prompted him to disclaim and utterlv refuse the 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


453 


acceptance of a reward so wholly disproportioned to the slight 
service he had rendered the old lady. 

Though he could not fail to be amused, he was, nevertheless, 
deeply touched, by the preamble to the will, in which Miss Patty 
set forth in a most characteristic manner the feelings and motives 
which had influenced her in the choice of an heir to her posses- 
sl ns. 

“ A gentlewoman, of advanced years, who has clung to life and 
its hopes, and, in spite of many vexatious vicissitudes, feels some- 
thing loath to depart, has been forcibly reminded by her relations 
that er<* another smiling spring-time she may have a call to join 
the deceased line of Paces, — a family which will, on her 
departure, here become extinct. With the most polite of cour- 
tesies, and a passing wave of the hand, Miss Patty acknowledges 
the forethought of her relations of the other branch, in reminding 
her, before it be too late, of the propriety of naming the individual 
for whose benefit it is her desire to make a testamentary pro- 
vision. 

“ She has looked about the world, viewed all her fellows in the 
glass of memory, and made her final election. The youth him- 
self — the most gallant young gentleman of his day — will open 
his eyes in astonishment, and declare, ‘ Madam, I know you 
not ! ’ But, sir, Miss Patty, old, ugly, and infirm, has a heart 
which feels as keenly as it did in youth. She has not forgotten 
— she means now to signify, by her last deeds, how vividly she 
remembers — the rosy-cheeked youth who once raised her from 
the frosty earth, took her withered hand, placed it within his 
vigorous young arm, and, with sunny smiles and cheering words, 
escorted the rheumatic old woman to a refuge from the wintry 
elements. Miss Patty has a natural love of courtesy, and the 
deference offered by gay and beautiful youth to helpless and 
despised old age has touched a sensitive chord. Miss Patty — 
it is no secret — has some little hoarded treasures; and, since she 
cannot be on the spot to superintend their expenditure, she has, 
after some struggles, resolved to secure them from pollution by 
awarding these savings of years to one possessed of such true gen- 
tility as Master William Sullivan, confidently assured that he will 


454 


TIIE LAMrLIGIlTER. 


never disgrace the former owner of the property, or permit hes 
wealth to flow into vulgar channels.’ ’ 

Then followed an inventory of the estate, — a most remarkable 
estate, consisting of odds and ends of everything ; and finally a 
carefully and legally worded document, assigning the whole of the 
strange medley, without legacies or incumbrances, to the sole use 
and disposal of the appointed heir. 

Gertrude found it no easy task to gather and transfix in writing 
the exact idea which the old woman’s rambling dictation was in- 
tended to convey ; and it was two or three hours before the man- 
uscript was completed, and the patient and dilligent scribe per- 
mitted to depart. 

The sky was overcast, and a drizzling rain beginning to fall, as 
she commenced walking towards home ; but the distance was not 
great, and the only damage she sustained was a slight dampness 
to her garments. Emily perceived it at once, however. “ Your 
dress is quite wet,” said she. “ You must go and sit by the par- 
lor-fire. I shall not go down until tea-time, but father is there, and 
will be glad of your company ; he has been alone all the after- 
noon.” 

Gertrude found Mr. Graham sitting in front of a pleasant wood- 
fire, half dozing, half reading. She took a book and a low chair, 
and joined him. Finding the heat too great, however, she soon 
retreated to a sofa, at the opposite side of the room. 

Hardly bad she done so when there was a ring at the front-door . 
bell. The housemaid, who was passing by the door, opened it, 
and immediately ushered in a visitor. 

It was Willie ! 

Gertrude rose, but trembling from head to foot, so that she 
dared not trust herself to take a step forward. Willie advanced 
into the centre of the room, then looked at Gertrude, bowed, hesi- 
tated, and said, Miss Flint ! — is she here ? ” 

The color rushed into Gertrude’s face. She attempted to speak, 
but failed. 

It was not necessary. The blush was enough. Willie recog- 
nized her, and, starting forward, eagerly seized her hand. 

“ Gerty ! is it possible ? ” 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER 


455 


The perfect naturalness and ease of his manner, the warmth 
and earnestness with which he took and retained her hand, 
reassured the agitated girl. The spell seemed partially removed. 
For a moment he became in her eyes the Willie of old, her dear 
friend and playmate, and she found voice to exclaim, “ 0, 
Willie ! you have come at last ! I am so glad to see you ! ” 

The sound of their voices disturbed Mr. Graham, who had fallen 
into a nap, from which the ringing of the door-bell and th& 
entrance of a strange step had failed to arouse him, He turned 
round in his easy-chair, then rose. Willie dropped Gertrude’s 
hand, and stepped towards him. “ Mr. Sullivan,” said Gertrude, 
with a feeble attempt at a suitable introduction. 

They shook hands, and then all three sat down. 

And now all Gertrude’s embarrassment returned. It is no* 
unfrequently the case that when the best of friends meet after a 
long separation they salute or embrace each other, and then, not- 
withstanding the weight of matter pressing on the mind of e^ch, — 
sufficient, perhaps to furnish subjects of conversation for weeks tc 
come, — nothing of importance presents itself at once, and a pause 
ensues which is finally filled up by some most trivial and unim- 
portant question concerning the journey of the newly-arrived 
party, or the safety of his baggage. But to these latter questions, 
or any of a similar nature, Gertrude required no answer. She» 
had seen Willie before ; she was aware of his arrival ; knew even 
the steamer in which he had come, but was anxious to conceal 
from him this knowledge. She could not tell him, since he seemed 
so ignorant of the fact himself, that they had met before ; and it 
may well be imagined that she was at an utter loss what to do or 
say, under the circumstances. Her embarrassment soon commu- 
nicated itself to Willie ; and Mr. Graham’s presence^ which was 
a restraint to both, made matters worse. 

Willie, however, first broke the momentary silence. “ I should 
hardly have known you, Gertrude. I did not know you. 
How — ” 

‘ How did you come?” asked Mr. Graham, abruptly, appar* 
ently unconscious that he was interrupting Willie’s remark 


456 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


“ In the Europa,” replied Willie. “She got into New York 
about a week ago.” 

“Out here, I meant,” said Mr. Graham, rather stiffly. “Did 
you come out in the coach? ” 

“ 0, excuse me, sir,” rejoined Willie ; “I misunderstood you. 
No, I drove out from Boston in a chaise.’* 

“Did any one take your horse ? ” 

“ I fastened him in front of the house.” 

Willie glanced out of the window (it was now nearly dusk) to 
see that the animal was still where he had left him. Mr. Graham 
settled himself in his easy-chair, and looked into the fire. There 
was another pause, more painful than the first. 

“You are changed, too,” said Gertrude, at last, in reply to 
Willie’s unfinished comment. Then, fearing he might feel hurt at 
what he must know to be true in more ways than one, the color, 
which had retreated, mounted once more to her cheeks. 

He did not seem to feel hurt, however, but replied, “ Yes, an 
Eastern climate makes great changes ; but I think I can hardly 
have altered more than you have. Why, only think, Gerty, you 
were a child when I went away ! I suppose I must have known 
I should have found you a young lady, but I begin to think I 
never fully realized it.” 

“ When did you leave Calcutta ? ” 

“ The latter part of February. I passed the spring months in 
Paris.” 

“ You did not write,” said Gertrude, in a faltering voice. 

“No, I was expecting to come across by every steamer, and 
wanted to surprise you.” 

Conscious that she had probably seemed far less surprised than 
he expected, she looked confused, but replied, “I was disap- 
pointed about the letters, but I am very glad to see you again, 
Willie.” 

“ You can’t be so glad as I am,” said he, lowering his voice, 
and looking at her with great tenderness. “ You seem more and 
more like yourself to me every minute that I see you. I begin to 
chink, however, that I ought to have written, and told you I was 
coming.” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


457 


Gertrude smiled. Willie’s manner was so unchanged, his 
words so affectionate, that it seemed unkind to doubt his friend- 
liness, although to his undivided love she felt she could have no 
claim. 

“No,” said she, “I like surprises. Don’t you remember I 
always did ? ” 

“ Remember? — Certainly,” replied he ; “I have never forgot- 
ten anything that you liked.” 

Just at this moment, Gertrude’s birds, whose cage hung in the 
window at which Willie sat, commenced a little twittering noise, 
which they always made just at night. He looked up. “Your 
birds,” said Gertrude, — “ the birds you sent me.” 

“ Are they all alive and well? ” asked he. 

“ Yes, all of them.” 

“ You have been a kind mistress to the little things. They are 
very tender.” 

“I am very fond of them.” 

“ You take such care of those you love, dear Gertv, that you 
are sure to preserve their lives as long as may be.” 

His tone, still more than his words, betrayed the deep meaning 
with which he spoke. Gertrude was silent. 

“ Is Miss Graham well? ” asked Willie. 

Gertrude related, in reply, that her nerves had been recently 
much disturbed by the terrible experiences through which she had 
passed ; and this led to the subject of the recent disaster, at which 
Gertrude forbore to mention her having been herself present. 

Willie spoke with feeling of the sad catastrophe, and with 
severity of the reckless carelessness which had been the cause of 
it ; and ended by remarking that he had valued friends on board 
the boat, but was unaware that Miss Graham, whom he loved for 
Gertrude’s sake, was among them. 

Conversation between Gertrude and Willie had by this time 
assumed a footing of ease, and something of their former famil- 
iarity. The latter had taken a seat near her, on the sofa, 
that they might talk more unrestrainedly ; for, although Mr. 
Graham might have dropped asleep again, for anything they 
knew to the contrary, it was not easy wholly to forget his pres- 


458 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


ence. There were many subjects, however, on which it would 
have seemed natural for them to speak, had not Gertrude pur- 
posely avoided them. The causes of Willie’s sudden return, his 
probable stay, his future plans in lifer, and especially his reasons 
for having postponed his visit to herself until he had been in the 
country more than a week ; — all these were inquiries which even 
ordinary interest and curiosity would have suggested ; but to 
Gertrude they all lay under embargo. She neither felt prepared 
to receive nor willing to force his confidence on matters which 
must inevitably be influenced by his engagement with Miss Clin- 
ton, and therefore preserved utter silence on these topics, even 
taking pains to avoid them. And Willie, deeply grieved at this 
strange want of sympathy on her part, forbore to thrust upon her 
notice these seemingly forgotten or neglected circumstances. 

They talked of Calcutta life, of Parisian novelties, of Gertrude’s 
school-keeping, and many other things, but spoke not a word of 
matters which lay nearest the hearts of both. At length a 
servant appeared at the door, and, not observing that there was 
company, announced tea, Mr. Graham rose, and stood with his 
back to the fire. Willie rose also, and prepared to take leave. 
Mr. Graham with frigid civility invited him to remain, and Ger- 
trude hesitated not to urge him to do so ; but he declined with 
such decision that the latter understood plainly that he perceived 
and felt the neglect with which Mr. Graham had treated him and 
his visit. In addition to the fact that the old gentleman disliked 
young men as a class, and that Willie had intruded upon the rare 
Kid sacred privacy in which he was indulging, there was the bit- 
ter and still rankling recollection that Gertrude had once forsaken 
himself and Emily (for so he, in his own mind, styled her con- 
scientious choice between conflicting duties) for the very family 
of which their visitor was the only remaining member; a recol- 
lection which did not tend to soften or conciliate the easily- 
prejudiced and obstinate-minded man. 

Gertrude accompanied Willie to the door. The rain had 
ooased, but the wind whistled across the piazza. It seemed to be 
growing cold. Willie buttoned his coat, while he promised to 
see Gertrude on the following day. 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


459 


*• lou "have no overcoat/' said she ; “ the night is chilly, and 
you are accustomed to a hot climate. You had better take this 
shawl;” *and she took from the hat-tree a heavy Scotch plaid, 
which always hung there to be used on occasions like the present. 

He thanked her, and threw it over his arm ; then, taking both 
her hands in his, looked her steadily in the face for a moment, 
as if he would fain have spoken. Seeing, however, that she 
shrank from his mild and affectionate gaze, he dropped her hands, 
and, with a troubled expression, bade her good-night, and ran 
down the door-steps. 

Gertrude stood with the handle of the door in her hand, until she 
heard the sound of his horse’s hoofs as he drove down the road; 
then, hastily shutting it, ran and hid herself in her own room. 
Well as she had borne up during the longed-for and yet much- 
dreaded meeting, calmly and naturally as she had sustained her 
part, her courage all forsook her now, and in looking forward to 
days, weeks, and months of frequent intercourse, she felt that the 
most trying part of the struggle was yet to come. 

Had Willie been wholly changed, — had he seemed the thought- 
less worldling, the fashionable man of society, the cold-hearted 
devotee of business or of gain, — in one of which characters she 
had lately half-fancied he would appear, — had he greeted her with 
chilling formality, with heartless indifference, or with awkward 
restraint, she might, while she despised, pitied, or blamed, have 
learned to love him less. But he had come back as he went, 
open-hearted, generous, manly, and affectionate. He had mani 
fested the same unaffected warmth of feeling, the same thoughtful 
tenderness, he had ever shown. In short, he was the Willie she 
had thought of, dreamed of, imagined and loved. It was evident 

o 1 1 o 

that in giving his heart to another he had never wholly forgotten 
her ; while he loved Isabel, he would still feel a friendly, almost 
a brotherly regard for Gertrude. More than that it had never 
occurred to him to bestow. 

And she must school herself to the cruel task of seeing him 
day by day, hearing the story of his love for another, and wishing 
him all joy, as a sister might do a kind and affectionate brother. 
She must learn to subdue the love whose depth and intensity she 


460 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


had scarcely known until now, and mould it into friendship. As 
she thought of all this, she found it impossible to still the wildly- 
beating waves that swelled against her aching, throbbing heart. 
She threw herself upon the bed, buried her face in pillows, and 
wept. 

Presently there was a light tap at her door. Believing it to be 
a summons to the tea-table, she said, without rising, “Jane, is 
that you? I do not wish for any supper.” 

“ It is n’t that, miss,’" said the girl ; “ but I have brought you 
a letter.” 

Gertrude sprung up, and opened the door. 

“ A little boy handed it to me, and then ran off as fast as he 
could,” said the gir*, placing a package in her hand. “ He told 
me to give it to you straight away.” 

“ Bring me a light,” said Gertrude. 

The girl went for a lamp, Gertrude in the mean time, endeav- 
oring to judge what a package of such unusual size and thickness 
could contain. She thought it impossible that any letter could so 
soon arrive from Mr. Amory. The next morning was the earliest 
time at which she had expected one. Who, then, could it be 
from? And, while she was wondering, Jane brought a lamp, by 
the light of which she at once detected his hand-writing; and, 
breaking the seal, she drew from the envelope several closely writ- 
ten page3, whose contents she perused with all the eagerness and 
excitement which the weight, import, and intense interest of the 
eubje'st might well demand. 


CHAPTEE X L V I . 


There are swift hours in life, — strong, rushing hours, 
That do the work of tempests in their might ! 

Hemans. 


It ran as follows : 

“ My Daughter, — My loving, tender-hearted girl. Now that 
your own words encourage me with the assurance that my worst 
fear was unfounded (the fear that my name was already blasted 
to your young ears, and your father doomed by your young heart 
to infamy), — now that I can appeal to you as to an impartial wit- 
ness, I will disclose the story of my life, and, while I prove to 
you your parentage, will hope that my unprejudiced child, at least, 
will believe, love, and trust her father, in spite of a world’s in- 
justice. 

“ I will conceal nothing. I will plunge at once into those dis- 
closures which I most dread to utter, and trust to after explana- 
tion to palliate the darkness of my tale. 

“ Mr. Graham is my step-father, and my blessed mother, long 
since dead, was, in all but the tie of nature, a true mother to 
Emily. Thus allied, however, to those whom you love best, I am 
parted from them by a heavy curse ; for not only was mine the 
ill-fated hand (0, hate me not yet, Gertrude !) which locked poor 
Emily up in darkness, but, in addition to that horrid deed, I 
stand accused in the eyes of my fellow-men of another crime, 
deep, dark, and disgraceful. And yet, though living under a ban, 
wandering up and down the world a doomed and a broken-hearted 
man, I am innocent as a 'child of all intentional wrong, as you 
will learn if you can trust to the truth of the tale I am about to 
tell 


462 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


“ Nature gave and education fostered in me a rebellious spirit 
I was the idol of my invalid mother, who, though she loved me 
with a love for which I bless her memory, had not the energy to 
tame and subdue the passionate and wilful nature of her boy. 
Though ungoverned, however, I was neither cruelly nor viciously 
disposed, and though my sway at home and among my school-fel- 
lows was alike indisputable, I made many friends, and not a single 
enemy. But a sudden check was at length put to my freedom. 
My mother married, and I soon came to feel, and feel bitterly, 
the check which her husband, Mr. Graham, was likely to impose 
upon my boyish independence. Had he treated me with kindness, 
had he won my affection (which he might easily have done, for 
my sensitive and impassioned nature disposed me to every tender 
and grateful emotion), it is impossible to measure the influence he 
might have had in moulding my yet unformed character. 

“ But the reverse was the case. His behavior towards me was 
that of chilling coldness and reserve. He repelled with scorn the 
first advance on my part, which led me, at my mother’s instigation, 
to address him by the paternal title, — an offence of which I 
never again was guilty. And yet, while he seemed to ignore the 
relationship, he assumed its privileges and authority, thus wound- 
ing my feelings and my pride, and exciting a spirit of rebellious op- 
position to Ips commands. 

“ Two things served to embitter my sentiments and strengthen 
my growing dislike for my overbearing step-father. One was the 
consciousness of my utter dependence upon his bounty ; the other, 
a hint, which I received through the mistaken kindness of a do- 
mestic who had always known the family, that Mr. Graham’s dis- 
like to me had its origin in an old enmity between himself and my 
own father — an honorable and high-minded man, whom it was 
ever my greatest pride to be told that I resembled. 

“ Great, however, as was the warfare in my heart, power rested 
with Mr. Graham ; for I was yet but a child, and necessarily sub- 
ject to government. Nor could I be deaf to my mother’s en- 
treaties that, for her sake, I would learm submission. It was only 
occasionally, therefore, when I had been, as I considered, most 
unjustly thwarted, that I broke forth into direct rebellion ; and 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 403 

even then there were influences ever at work to preserve at least 
outward harmony in our household. Thus years passed on, and, 
though 1 did not learn to love Mr. Graham more, the force of 
habit, the intense interest afforded by my studies, and a growing 
capability of self-control, rendered my mode of life far less obnox- 
ious to me than it had once been. 

“ There was one great compensation for my trials, and that was 
the love I cherished for Emily, who responded to it with equal 
warmth on her part. It was not because she stood between me 
and her father, a mediator and a friend ; it was not because she 
submitted patiently to my dictation, and aided me in all my plans. 
It was because our natures were made for each other, and, as 
they grew and expanded, were bound together by ties which a 
rude hand only could snap and rend asunder. I pause not to 
dwell upon the tenderness and depth of this affection ; it is enough 
to say that it became the life of my life. 

“At length my mother died. I was at that time — sorely 
against my will — employed in Mr. Graham’s counting-house, and 
still continued an inmate of his family. And now, without excuse 
or even warning, my step-father commenced a course of policy as 
unwise as it was cruel ; and so irritating to my pride, so tortur- 
ing to my feelings, and so maddening to my hot nature, that it ex- 
cited and angered me almost to frenzy. He tried to rob me of 
the only thing that sweetened and blessed my existence — the love 
of Emily. I will not here recount the motives I imputed to him, 
nor the means he employed. It is sufficient to say that they 
were such as to change my former dislike into bitter hatred, — 
my unwilling obedience to his will into open and deliberate op- 
position. 

“ Instead of submitting to what I considered his tyrannical inter- 
ference, I sought Emily’s society on all occasions, and persuaded 
the gentle girl to lend herself to my schemes for thwarting her 
father’s purposes. I did not speak to her of love ; I did not 
seek to bind her to me by promises ; I hinted not at marriage ; 
a sense of honor forbade it. But, with a boyish independence, 
which I have since feared was the height of folly and imprudence, 

I sought every occasion, even, in her father’s presence, to man* 


404 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


fest my determination to maintain that constant freedom and fa« 
miliarity of intercourse which had been the growth of circumstances, 
and could not, without force, be restrained. 

“ At length Emily was taken ill, and for six weeks I was de- 
barred her presence. As soon as she was sufficiently recovered to 
leave her room, I constantly sought and at last obtained an oppor- 
tunity to see and speak with her. We had been together in the 
library more than an hour when Mr. Graham suddenly entered, 
and came towards us with a face whose harshness and severity I 
shall not soon forget. I did not heed an interruption, for the 
probable consequences of which I believed myself prepared. I 
was little prepared, however, for the nature of the attack actually 
made upon me. 

“That he would accuse me of disobedience to wishes which he 
had hinted in every possible way, and even intimate more plainly 
than before his resolve to place barriers between Emily and my- 
self, I fully expected, and was ready with my replies ; but when 
he burst forth with a torrent of unqualified and ungentlemanly 
abuse, — when he stormed and raved, imputing to me mean, selfish, 
and contemptible motives, which had never for a moment influ- 
enced me, or even occurred to my mind, —I was struck dumb 
with surprise, impatience, and anger. 

“ But this was not all. It was then, in the presence of the pure- 
minded girl whom I worshipped, that he charged me with a dark 
and horrid crime, — -the crime of forgery, — asserting my guilt as 
recently discovered, but positive and undoubted. My spirit had 
raged before, now it was on fire. I lifted my hand, and clenched 
my fist. What I would have done I know not. Whether I 
should have found words to assert my innocence, fling back the 
lie, and refute a charge as unexpected as it was false, — or whether, 
my voice failing me from passion, I should have swept Mr Graham 
from my path, perhaps felled him to the floor, while I strode away 
to rally my calmness in the open air, — I cannot now conjecture ; 
for a wild shriek from Emily recalled me to myself, and, turning, 

I saw her fall fainting upon the sofa. 

“ Forgetting everything then but the apparently dying condition 
into which the horror of the scene had throwiv her, I sprang for 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


465 


ward to her relief. There was a table beside her, and some bot- 
tles upon it. I hastily snatched what I believed to be a simple 
restorative, and, in my agitation, emptied the contents of the 
phial in her face. I know not what the exact character of the 
mixture could have been; but it matters not, — its effect was too 
awfully evident. The deed was done, — the fatal deed, — and 
mine was the hand that did it ! 

4 ‘ Brought suddenly to consciousness by the intolerable torture 
that succeeded, the poor girl sprung screaming from the sofa, 
flung her arms wildly above her head, rushed in a frantic manner 
through the room, and finally crouched in a corner. I followed, 
in an agony scarce less than her own ; but she repelled me with 
her hands, at the same time uttering piercing shrieks. Mr. Gra- 
ham, who for an instant had looked like one paralyzed by the 
scene, now rushed forward like a madman. Instead of aiding me 
in my efforts to lift poor Emily from the floor, and so far from 
compassionating my situation, which was only less pitiable than 
hers, he, with a fierceness redoubled at my being, as he consid- 
ered, the sole cause of the disaster, attacked me with a storm of 
jeering taunts and cruel reproaches, 'declaring that I had killed 
his child. With words like these, which are still ringing in my 
ears, he drove me from the room and the house ; a repulsion 
which I, overpowered by the misery of contrition and remorse, 
had neither the wish nor the strength to resist. 

“ 0, the terrible night and day that succeeded ! I can give 
you no idea how they were passed. I wandered out into the 
country, spent the whole night walking beneath the open sky, 
endeavoring to collect my thoughts and compose my mind, and 
still morning found me with a fevered pulse and excited brain. 
With the returning light, however, I began to realize the neces- 
sity of forming some future plan of action. 

“ Emily’s sad situation, and my intense anxiety to learn the 
worst effects of the fatal accident, gave me the strongest motives 
for hastening, • with the earliest morning, either openly or by 
stealth, to Mr. Graham’s house. Everything also which I pos- 
sessed — all my money, consisting merely of the residue of my 
last quarter’s allowance, my clothing, and a few valuable gifts 


466 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


from my mother — -was in the chamber which 1 had there occu* 
pied. There seemed, therefore, to be no other course for me 
than to return thither once more, at least ; and having thus re- 
solved, I retraced my steps to the city, determined, if it were 
necessary in order to gain the desired particulars concerning 
Emily, to meet her father face to face. As I drew near the 
house, however, I hesitated, and dared not proceed. Mr. Graham 
had exhausted upon me already every angry word, had threatened 
even deeds of violence, should I ever again cross his threshold ; 
and I feared to trust my own fiery spirit to a collision in which I 
might be led on to an open resistance of the man whom I had 
already sufficiently injured. 

“In the terrible work I had but yesterday done, — a work of 
whose fatal effect I had even then a gloomy foreshadowing, — I 
had blighted the existence of his worshipped chil<j, and drawn a 
dark pall over his dearest hopes. It was enough. I would not, 
for worlds, be guilty of the added sin of lifting my hand against 
the man who, unjust as he had been towards an innocent youth, 
had met a retaliation far, far too severe. 

“ Still, I knew his wrath to be unmitigated, was well aware of 
his power to excite my hot nature to frenzy, and resolved to 
beware how I crossed his path. Meet him I must, to refute the 
false charges he had brought against me; but not within the 
walls of his dwelling, the home of his suffering daughter. In 
the counting-house, where the crime of forgery was said to have 
been committed, and in the presence of my fellow-clerks, I would 
publicly deny the deed, and dare him to its proof. But first I 
must either see or hear from Emily ; before I met the father at 
all, I must learn the exact nature and extent of the wrong I had 
done him in the person of his child. For this, however, I must 
wait until, under cover of the next night’s darkness, I could 
enter the house unperceived. 

“ So I wandered about all day in torment, without tasting or 
even desiring food or rest, the thought of my poor, darling, tor- 
cured Emily ever present to my wretched thoughts. The hours 
seemed interminable. I remember that day of suspense as if it 
had been a whole year of misery. But right came at last. 


THE LAMPLTGIITEK. 


469 


stand)’, aal the air thickened with a heavy fog, which, 
approached the street where Mr. Graham lived, enveloped the 
neighborhood, and concealed the house until I was directly oppo- 
site to it. I shuddered at the sight of the physician’s chaise 
standing before the door; for I knew that Dr. Jeremy had closed 
bis visits to Emily more than a week previously, and must have 
been summoned to attend her since the accident. Finding him 
there, and thinking it probable Mr. Graham was also in the house 
at this hour, I forbore to enter, but stood effectually concealed by 
the cloud of mist, and watching my opportunity. 

“ Once or twice Mrs. Ellis, the housekeeper, passed up and 
down the staircase, as I could distinctly see' through the side- 
lights of the door, which afforded me a full view of the entry- 
way ; and presently Dr. Jeremy descended slowly, followed by 
Mr. Graham. The doctor would have passed hastily out; but 
Mr. Graham detained him, to question him regarding his patient, 
as I judged from the deep anxiety depicted on my step-father’^ 
countenance, while, with one hand resting on the shoulder of this 
old friend of the family, he sought to read his opinion in his face. 
The doctor’s back was towards me, and I could only judge of his 
replies by the effect they produced on the questioner, whose hag- 
gard, worn appearance became more fearfully distressed at every 
syllable that fell from the honest and truthful lips of the medical 
man, whose words were oracles to all who knew his skill. 

“ I needed, therefore, no further testimony to force upon me the 
conviction that Emily’s fate was sealed; and, as I looked with 
pity upon the afflicted parent, and shudderingly thought how 
immediate had been my agency in the work of destruction, I felt 
that the unhappy father could not curse me more bitterly than I 
cursed myself. Deeply, however, as I mourned, and have never 
ceased to repent, my share in the exciting of that storm wherein 
the poor girl had been so cruelly shipwrecked, I could not forget 
the part that Mr. Graham had borne in the transaction, or for- 
give the wicked injustice and insults which had so unnerved and 
unmanned me as to render my hand a fit instrument only of 
ruin ; and as, immediately after the doctor’s departure, I watched 
my step-father also come down the steps and walk away, and saw, 


466 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


fty* a street-lamp, that the look of pain had passed from his face, 
giving place to his usual composed, self-complacent, and arrogant 
expression, and understood, by the loud and measured manner in 
which he struck his cane upon the pavement, that he was far from 
sharing my humble, penitent mood, I ceased to waste upon him a 
compassion which he seemed so little to require or deserve ; and, 
pitying myself only, I looked upon his stern face with a soul which 
cherished for him no other sentiment than that of unmitigated 
hatred. 

“ Do not shrink from me, Gertrude, as you read this frank con 
fession of my passionate and, at that moment, deeply-stirred 
nature. You know not, perhaps, what it is to hate ; but have you 
ever been tried as I was ? 

“ As Mr. Graham turned the corner of the street, I approached 
his house, drew forth a pass-key of my own, by means of which I 
opened the door, and went in. It was perfectly quiet within, and 
no person was to be seen in any of the lower rooms. I then 
passed noiselessly up-stairs, and entered a little chamber at the 
head of the passage which communicated with Emily’s room. I 
waited here a long time, hearing no sound and seeing no one. At 
length, fearing that Mr. Graham would shortly return, I deter- 
mined to ascend to my own room, which was in the next story, col- 
lect my money, and a few articles of value, which I was unwilling 
to leave behind, and then make my way to the kitchen, and gain 
what news I could of Emily from Mrs. Prime, the cook, a kind- 
hearted woman, who would, I felt sure, befriend me. 

“ The first part of my object was accomplished, and I had de- 
scended the back staircase to gain Mrs. Prime’s premises when I 
suddenly encountered Mrs. Ellis coming from the kitchen, with a 
bowl of gruel in her hand. This woman was a recent addition to 
the household, introduced there a few weeks before as a spy upon 
my actions, and intolerable to me on that account. She was well 
acquainted with all the particulars of the accident, and had been a 
witness to my expulsion from the house. She stopped short on 
seeing me, gave a slight scream, dropped the bowl of gruel, and 
prepared to make her escape, as if from a wild beast, which I 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


469 


doubt not that I resembled, since wretchedness, fasting, suffering, 
and desperation must all have been depicted in my features. 

“ I placed myself in her path, and compelled her to stop and* lis- 
ten to me. But before my eager questions could find utterance, 
an outburst from her confirmed my worst fears. 

‘ ‘ Let me go ! ’ she exclaimed. ‘ You villain ! you will bo 
putting my eyes out, next ! ’ 

“ ‘ Where is Emily ? ’ I cried. ‘ Let me see her ! 9 

“ ‘ See her ! ’ replied she. 4 You horrid wretch ! No ! she has 
suffered enough from you. She is satisfied herself now ; so let 
her alone.’ 

“‘What do you mean?’ shouted I, shaking the housekeeper 
violently by the shoulder, for her words seared my very soul, and 
I was frantic. 

“ ‘ Mean? 9 continued she. ‘ I mean that Emily will never see 
anybody again ; and, if she had a thousand eyes, you are the last 
person upon whom she would wish to look ! 9 

“ ‘ Does Emily hate me, too? ’ burst from me then, in the form 
of a soliloquy rather than a question. 

“ The reply was ready, however. ‘ Hate you ? Yes, — more 
than that ; she cannot find words that are bad enough for you ! 
She mutters even in her pain, “cruel! — wicked!” and so on. 
She even shudders at the sound of your name ; and we are all for- 
bidden to speak it in her presence/ 

“I waited to hear no more, but, turning, rushed out of the 
house. 

“ That moment was the crisis of my life. The thunderbolt had 
fallen upon and crushed me. My hopes, my happiness, my for- 
tune, my good name, had gone before ; but one solitary light had 
until now glimmered in the darkness. It was Emily’s love. I 
had trusted in that, — that only. It had passed away, and with 
it my youth, my faith, my hope of heaven. I was a blank on the 
earth, and cared not whither I went, or what became of me. 

“ From that moment I ceased to be myself. Then fell upon me 
the cloud in which I have ever since been shrouded, and under 
the shadow of which you have seen and known me. In that 
instant the blight had come, under the gnawing influence of which 
40 


470 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


my happy laugh changed to the hitter smile ; my frank and pleas- 
ant speech to tones of ill-concealed irony and sarcasm ; my hair 
became prematurely gray, my features sharp and oftentimes 
severe ; my fellow-men, to whom it had been my noblest hope to 
prove some day a benefactor, were henceforth the armed hosts of 
antagonists, with whom I would wage endless war ; and the God 
whom I had worshipped, — whom I had believed in, as a just and 
faithful friend and avenger, — who was He ? — where was He ? — 
and why did He not right my cause ? What direful and premedi- 
tated deed of darkness had I been guilty of, that He should thus 
desert me ? Alas ! — greatest of all misfortunes, — I lost my faith 
in Heaven ! 

“ I know not what direction I took on leaving Mr. Graham’s 
house. I have no recollection of any of the streets through which 
I passed, though doubtless they were all familiar ; but I paused 
not, until, having reached the end of a wharf, I found myself gaz- 
ing down into the deep water, longing to take one mad leap, and 
lose myself in everlasting oblivion ! 

“ But for this final blow, beneath which my manhood had fallen, 
I would have cherished my life, at least until I could vindicate its 
fair fame ; I would never have left a blackened memory for men 
to dwell upon, and for Emily to weep over. But now what cared 
i for my fellow-men? And Emily — she had ceased to love, and 
would not mourn ; and I longed for nothingness and the grave. 

“ There are moments in human life when a word, a look, or 
thought, may weigh down the balance in the scales of fate, and de- 
cide a destiny. 

“ So was it with me now. I was incapable of forming any plan 
for myself; but accident, as it were, decided for me. I was 
startled from the apathy into which I had fallen by the sudden 
splashing of oars in the water beneath, and in a moment a little 
boat was moored to a pier within a rod of the spot where I stood. 
At the same instant I heard quick footsteps on the wharf, and, 
turning, saw by the light of the moon, which was just appearing 
from behind a heavy cloud, a stout, sea-faring man, with a heavy 
pea-jacket under one arm, and an old-fashioned carpet-bag in his 
left hand- He had a ruddy, good-humored face, and as he ap- 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


471 


proaehed, and was about to pass me and leap into the boat, where 
two sailors, with their oars dipped and ready for motion, were 
awaiting him, he slapped me heartily on the shoulder, and ex- 
claimed, ‘Well, my fine fellow, will you ship with us? * 

I answered as readily in the affirmative; and, with one look 
in my face, and a glance >at my dress, which seemed to assure him 
of my station in life, and probable ability to make compensation for 
the passage, he said, in a laughing tone, ‘ In with you, then ! 9 

“To his astonishment, — for he had scarcely believed me in 
earnest, — I sprang into the boat, and in . a few moments was on 
board of a fine bark, bound I knew not whither. 

“The vessel’s destination proved to be Rio Janeiro; a fact 
which I did not learn, however, till we had been two or three days 
at sea, and to which, even then, I felt wholly indifferent. There 
was one other passenger beside myself, — the captain’s daughter, 
Lucy Grey, whom, during the first week, I scarcely noticed, but 
who appeared to be as much at home, whether in the cabin or on 
deck, as if she had passed her whole life at sea. I might, per- 
haps, have made the entire passage without giving another thought 
to this young girl, — half child, half woman, — had not my strange 
and mysterious behavior led her to conduct in a manner which 
at first surprised, and finally interested me. My wild and ex- 
cited countenance, my constant restlessness, avoidance of food, 
and apparent indifference to everything that went on about me, 
excited her wonder and sympathy to the utmost. She at first 
believed me partially deranged, and treated me accordingly. She 
would take a seat on deck directly opposite mine, look in my 
face for an hour, either ignorant or regardless of my observing her, 
and then walk away with a heavy sigh. Occasionally she would 
come and offer me some little delicacy, begging that I would try 
and eat ; and as, touched by her kindness, I took food more read- 
ily from her hand than any other, these little attentions became at 
last habitual. As my manners and looks grew calmer, however, 
and I settled into a melancholy, which, though equally deep, was 
less fearful than the feverish torment under which I had labored, 
she became proportionately reserved ; and when, at last, I began 
to appear somewhat like my fellow -men, went regularly to the 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


m 

table, and, instead of pacing the deck all night, spent a part of it, 
at least, quietly in my state-room, Lucy absented herself wholly 
from that part of the vessel where I passed the greater portion of 
the day, and I seldom exchanged a word with her, unless I pur 
posely sought her society. 

“We experienced much stormy weather, however, which drove 
me to the cabin, where she usually sat c n the transom, reading, or 
watching the troubled waves; and, as the voyage was very long, 
we were necessarily thrown much in each other’s way, especially 
as Captain Grey, the same individual who had invited me to 
ship with him, and who seemed still to take an interest in my wel 
fare, good-naturedly encouraged an intercourse by which he proba 
bly hoped I might be won from a state of melancholy that seemed 
to astonish and grieve the jolly ship-master almost as much as it 
did his kind-hearted, sensitive child. 

“ Lucy’s shyness, thererfore, wore gradually away, and before our 
tedious passage was completed I ceased to be a restraint upon 
her. She talked freely with, or rather to me ; for while, notwith- 
standing her occasional intimations of curiosity, I maintained a 
rigid silence concerning my own past experiences, of which I 
could scarcely endure to think, much less to speak, she exerted 
herself freely for my entertainment, and related, with simple 
frankness, almost every circumstance of her past life. Some- 
times I listened attentively ; sometimes, absorbed in my own 
painful reflections, I would be deaf to her voice, and forgetful of 
her presence. In the latter case, I would often observe, however, 
that she had suddenly ceased speaking, and, starting from my 
revery, and looking quickly up, would find her eyes fixed upon 
me so reproachfully that, rallying my self-command, I would en- 
deavor to appear, and not unfrequently really became, seriously 
interested in the artless narratives of my little entertainer. She 
told me that until she was fourteen years old she lived with her 
mother in a little cottage on Cape Cod, their home being only 
occasionally enlivened by the return of her father from his long 
absences at sea. They would then usually make a visit to the 
city where his vessel lay, pass a few weeks in uninterrupted en- 
joyment, and at length return home to mourn the departure of 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


473 


the cheerful, light-hearted sea-captain, and patiently count the 
weeks and months until he would come back again. 

“She told me how her mother died at last; how bitterly she 
mourned her loss ; and how her father wept when he came home 
and heard the news ; how she had lived on ship-board ever since, 
and how sad and lonely she felt in time of storms, when, the 
master at his post of duty, she sat alone in the cabin, listening to 
the roar of the winds and waves. 

“ Tears would come into her eyes when she spoke of these things, 
and I would look upon her with pity, as one whom sorrow made 
my sister. Trial, however, had not yet robbed her of an elastic, 
buoyant spirit ; and when, five minutes after the completion of 
some eloquent little tale of early grief, the captain would approach 
unseen, and surprise her by a sudden joke, exclamation, or sly 
piece of mischief, thus provoking her to retaliate, she was always 
ready and alert for a war of wits, a laughing frolic, or even a game 
of romps. Her sorrow forgotten, and her tears dried up, her 
merry voice and her playful words would delight her father, and 
the cabin or the deck would ring with his joyous peals of laughter ; 
while I, shrinking from a mirth and gayety sadly at variance with 
my own unhappiness, and the sound of which was discordant to 
my sensitive nerves, would retire to brood over miseries for which 
it was hopeless to expect sympathy, which could not be shared, 
and with which I must dwell alone. 

“Such a misanthrope had my misfortunes made me that the 
sportive raillery between the captain and his merry daughter, and 
the musical laugh with which she would respond to the occasional 
witticisms of one or two old and privileged sailors, grated upon 
my ears like something scarce less than personal injuries; nor 
could I have believed it possible that one so little able as Lucy 
to comprehend the depth of my sufferings could feel any sincere 
compassion for them, had I not once or twice been touched to see 
how her innocent mirth would give place to sudden gravity and 
sadness of countenance, if she chanced unexpectedly to encounter 
my woe-begone face, rendered doubly gloomy when contrasted 
with the gayety of herself and her companions. 

“ But 1 must not linger too long upon the details of our life on 

40 * 


474 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


ship-board ; for I have to relate events which occupied man} 
years, and must confine myself, as far as possible, to a concise 
statement of facts. I must forbear giving any account of a terrific 
gale that we encountered, during which, for two days and a night 
poor Lucy was half-frantic with fear, while 1, careless of outward 
discomforts, and indifferent to personal danger, was afforded an 
opportunity to requite her kindness by such protection and en- 
couragement as I was able to render. But this, and various other 
incidents of the voyage, all bore a part in inspiring her with a 
degree of confidence in me, which, by the time we arrived in port, 
was put to a severe and somewhat embarrassing test. 


CHAPTEE XL VII . 


Do not spurn me 
In my prayer ! 

for this wandering, ever longer, evermore, 

Hath overworn me, 

Ind I know not on what shore 

I may rest from my despair. E. B Browning. 

“ Captain Grey died. We were within a week’s sail of oui 
destination wl .en he was taken ill, and three days before we were 
safely anchored in the harbor of Eio, he breathed his last. I 
shared with Lucy the office of ministering to the suffering man, 
closed his eyes at last, and carried the fainting girl in my arms to 
another part of the vessel. With kind words and persuasions I 
restored her to her senses; and then, as the full consciousness of 
her desolation rushed upon her, she sunk at once into a state of 
hopeless despondency, more painful to witness than her previous 
condition of utter insensibility. Captain Grey had made no pro- 
vision for his daughter ; indeed, it would have been impossible for 
him to do so, as the state of his affairs afterwards proved. Well 
might the poor girl lament her sad fate ! for she was without a 
relative in the world, penniless, and approaching a strange shore, 
which afforded no refuge to the orphan. We buried her father in 
the sea ; and, that sad office fulfilled, I sought Lucy, and endeav- 
ored, as I had several times tried to do without success, to arouse 
her to a sense of her situation, and advise with her concerning the 
future ; for we were now so near our port that in a few hours we 
might be compelled to leave the vessel and seek quarters in the 
city. She listened to me without replying. 

“ At length I hinted at the necessity of my leaving her, and 


476 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


begged to know if she had any plans for the future She an 
swered me only by a burst of tears. 

“I expressed the deepest sympathy for her grief, and begged 
her not to weep. 

“ And then, with many sobs, and interrupting herself by fre- 
quent outbreaks and exclamations of vehement sorrow, she threw 
herself upon my compassion, and, with unaffected simplicity and 
child-like artlessness, entreated me not to leave, or, as she termed 
it, to desert her. She reminded me that she was all alone in the 
world ; that the moment she stepped foot on shore she should be 
in a land of strangers; and, appealing to my mercy, besought me 
not to forsake and leave her to die alone. 

“ What could I do? I had nothing on earth to live for. We 
were both alike orphaned and desolate. There was but one point 
of difference. I could work and protect her ; she could do neither 
for herself. It would be something for me to live for ; and for 
her , though but a refuge of poverty and want, it was better than 
the exposure and suffering that must otherwise await her. I told 
her plainly how little I had to offer; that my heart even was 
crushed and broken ; but that I was ready to labor in her behalf, 
to guard her from danger, to pity, and, perhaps, in time, learn to 
love her. 

“ The unsophisticated girl had never thought of marriage ; she 
had sought the protection of a friend, not a husband ; but I 
explained to her that the latter tie only would obviate the neces- 
sity of our parting; and, in the humility of sorrow, she finally 
accepted my unflattering offer. 

“ The only confidant to our sudden engagement, the only witness 
of the marriage, which, within a few hours, ensued, was a veteran 
mariner, an old, weather-beaten sailor, who had known and loved 
Lucy from her childhood, and whose name will be, perhaps, famil- 
iar to you, — Ben Grant. He accompanied us on shore, and to 
tlv. church, which was our first destination. He followed us to 
the humble lodgings with which we contrived for the present to 
bo contented, and devoted himself to Lucy with self-sacrificing, 
but in one instance, alas! (as you will soon learn) with mistak3n 
and fatal zeal. 


TITE LAMPLIGHTER. 


477 


“ After much difficulty, I obtained employment from a man in 
whom I accidentally recognized an old and valued friend of my 
father. He had been in Rio several years, was actively engaged 
in trade, and willingly employed me as clerk, occasionally despatch- 
ing me from home to transact business at a distance. My duties 
being regular and profitable, we were soon not only raised above 
want, but I was enabled to place my young wife in a situation 
that insured comfort, if not luxury. 

“ The sweetness of her disposition, the cheerfulness with which 
she endured privation, the earnestness with which she strove 
to make me happy, were not without effect. I perseveringly 
rallied from my gloom ; I succeeded in banishing the frown from 
my brow ; and the premature wrinkles, which her little hand 
would softly sweep away, finally ceased to return. The few 
months that I passed with your mother, Gertrude, form a sweet 
episode in the memory of my stormy life. I came to love her 
much, — not as I loved Emily ; that could not be expected, — but, 
as the solitary flower that bloomed on the grave of all my early hopes, 
she cast a fragrance round my path ; and her child is not more dear 
to me because a part of myself than as the memento of the cher- 
ished blossom, snatched hastily from my hand, and rudely crushed. 

“ About two months after your birth, my child, and before your 
eyes had ever learned to brighten at the sight of your father, who 
was necessarily much from home, the business in which I was 
engaged called me, in the capacity of an agent, to a station at 
some distance from Rio. I had been absent nearly a month, had 
extended my journey beyond my original intentions, and had writ- 
ten regularly to Lucy, informing her of all my movements (though 
I have since believed that the letters never reached her), when 
the neighborhood in which I was stationed became infected with 
a fatal malaria. For the sake of my family, I took every meas- 
ure to ward off contagion, but failed. I was seized with the terri- 
ble fever, and lay for weeks at the point of death. I was cruelly 
neglected during my illness ; for I had no friends near me, and 
my slender purse held out little inducement for mercenary service ; 
but my sufferings and forebodings on account of Lucy and your- 
self were far greater than any which I endured from my bodily 


478 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


torments, although the latter were great indeed. I conjwr?^ yn 3 
every fear that the imagination could conceive ; but nothing, alas! 
which could compare with the reality that awaited me, when, after 
an almost interminable illness, I made my way, destitute, ragged, 
and emaciated, back to Rio. I sought my former home. It was 
deserted, and I was warned to flee from its vicinity, as the fearful 
disease of which I had already been the prey had nearly depopu- 
lated that and the neighboring streets. I made every inquiry, 
but could obtain no intelligence of my wife and child. I hastened 
to the horrible charnel-house where, during the raging of the pesti- 
lence, the unrecognized dead were exposed ; but, among the disfig- 
ured and mouldering remains, it was impossible to distinguish 
friends from strangers. I lingered about the citv for weeks, in 
hopes to gain some information concerning Lucy ; but could find 
no one who had ever heard of her. All day I wandered about the 
streets and on the wharves, — the latter being places which Ben 
Grant (in whose faithful charge I had left your mother and your- 
self) was in the habit of frequenting, — but not a syllable could I 
learn of any persons that answered my description. 

4 4 My first thought had been that they would naturally seek my 
employer, to learn, if possible, the cause of my prolonged absence ; 
and, on finding my home empty, I had hastened in search of him. 
But he, too, had, within a recent period, fallen a victim to the 
prevailing distemper. His place of business was closed, and the 
establishment broken up. I prolonged my search and continued 
my inquiries until hope died within me. I was assured that 
scarce an inmate of the fatal neighborhood where I had left my 
family had escaped the withering blast ; and convinced, finally, 
that my fate was still pursuing me with an unmitigated wrath, of 
which this last blow was but a single expression, that I might have 
foreseen and expected, I madly agreed to work my passage in the 
first vessel which promised me an escape from scenes so fraught 
with harrowing recollections. 

44 And now commenced in truth that course of wretched wander 
ing, which, knowing neither pause nor cessation, has made up tbG 
sum of my existence. With varied ends in view, following strong- 
ly-contrasted employments, and with fluctuating fortune, I have 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


479 


travelled over the world. My feet have trodden almost every 
land ; I have sailed upon every sea, and breathed the air of every 
clime. I am familiar with the city and the wilderness, the civil- 
ized man and the savage. I have learned the sad lesson that 
peace is nowhere, and friendship for the most part but a name. If 
I have taught myself to hate, shun, and despise humanity, it is be- 
cause I know it well. 

“ Once, during my wanderings, I visited the home of my boy- 
hood. Unseen and unknown I trod familiar ground, and gazed 
on familiar though time-worn faces. I stood at the window of 
Mr. Graham’s library ; saw the contented, happy countenance of 
Emily, — happy in her blindness and her forgetfulness of the past. 
A young girl sat near the fire, endeavoring to read by its flicker- 
ing light. I knew not then what gave such a charm to her thought- 
ful features, nor why my eyes dwelt upon them with a rare pleas- 
ure ; for there was no voice to proclaim to the father’s heart that 
he looked on the face of his child. I am not sure that the strong 
impulse which prompted me then to enter, acknowledge my iden- 
tity, and beg Emily to speak to me a word of forgiveness, might 
not have prevailed over the dread of her displeasure ; but Mr. 
Graham at the moment made his appearance, cold and impla- 
cable as ever ; I looked upon him an instant, then fled from the 
house, and the next day departed for other lands. 

“ Although, in the various labors which I was compelled to un- 
dertake, to earn for myself a decent maintenance, I had more than 
once met with such success as to give me temporary independence, 
and enable me to indulge myself in expensive travelling, I had 
never amassed a fortune ; inched, I had not cared to do so, since I 
had no use for money, except to employ it in the gratification of 
my immediate wants. Accident, however, at last thrust upon me 
a wealth which I could scarcely be said to have sought. 

“ After a year spent in the wilderness of the west, amid adven- 
tures the relation of which would seem to you almost incredible, 
l gradually continued my retreat across the country, and, after 
encountering innumerable hardships in a solitary journey, which 
had in it no other object than the indulgence of my vagrant habits, 

I found myself in that land which has recently been termed the 


480 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


land of promise, but which has proved to many a greedy emigrant 
a land of falsehood and deceit. For me. however, who sought it 
not, it showered gold. I was among the earliest discoverers of its 
treasure- vaults, — one of the most successful, though the least la- 
borious, of the seekers after gain. Nor was it merely, or, indeed, 
chiefly, at the mines that fortune favored me. With the first re- 
sults of my labors I chanced to purchase an immense tract of land, 
£ttle dreaming at the time that those desert acres were des- 
tined to become the streets and squares of a great and prosper- 
ous city. 

“So it was, however; and without effort, almost without my 
own knowledge, I achieved the greatness which springs from untold 
wealth. 

k * But this was not all. The blessed accident, which led me to 
this golden land was the means of disclosing a pearl of price, a 
treasure in comparison with which California and all its mines 
shrink to my mind into insignificance. You know how the war-cry 
went forth to all lands, and men of every name and nation brought 
their arms to the field of fortune. Famine came next, with dis- 
ease and death in its train ; and many a man, hurrying on to reap 
the golden harvest, fell by the way-side, without once seeing the 
waving of the yellow gram. 

“ Half scorning the greedy rabble, I could not refuse, in this my 
time of prosperity, to minister to the wants of such as fell in my 
way ; and now, for once, my humanity found its own reward. 

“A miserable, ragged, half-starved, and apparently dying man 
crept to the door of my tent (for these were the primitive days, 
when that land afforded no better habitation), and asked in a 
feeble voice for> charity. I did not refuse to admit him into my 
narrow domicile, and to the extent of my ability relieve his suffer- 
ing condition. He proved to be the ^ctim of want rather than 
disease, and, his hunger appeased, the savage brutality of his coarse 
nature soon manifested itself in the dogged indifference with which 
he received a stranger’s bounty, and the gross ingratitude with 
which he abused my hospitality. A few days sufficed to restore 
him to his full strength ; and then, anxious to dismiss my visitor, 
whose conduct had already excited suspicions of his good faith, I 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


481 


gave him warning that he must depart ; at the same time placing 
in his hands a sufficient amount of gold to insure his support until 
he could reach the mines, which were his professed destination. 

“ He appeared dissatisfied, and begged permission to remain 
antil the next morning, as the night was near, and he had no shel- 
ter provided. To this I made no objection, little imagining how 
base a serpent I was harboring. At midnight I was awakened 
from my light and easily-disturbed sleep, to find my lodger busily 
engaged in rifling my property, and preparing to take an uncere- 
monious leave of my dwelling. Nor did his villany end here. 
Upon my seizing and charging him with the theft, he snatched a 
weapon which lay near at hand, and attempted the life of his bene- 
factor. I was prepared, however, to ward off the stroke, and by 
means of my superior strength succeeded in a few moments in sub- 
duing and mastering my desperate antagonist. He now crouched 
at my feet in such abject and mean submission as might have been 
expected from so contemptible a knave. Well might he tremble 
with fear ; for the lynch-law was then in full force, and summary 
in its execution of justice upon criminals like him. I should 
probably have handed the traitor over to his fate, but, ere I had 
time to do so, he by chance held out to my cupidity a bribe so 
tempting, that I forgot the deservings of my knavish guest in the 
eagerness with which I bartered his freedom as the .price of its 
possession. 

“ He freely emptied his pockets at my bidding, and restored to 
me the gold, for the loss of which I never should have repined. 
As the base metal rolled at my feet, however, there glittered among 
the coins a jewel as truly mine as any of the rest, but which, as 
it met my sight, filled me with greater surprise and rapture than 
if it had been a new-fallen star. 

“ It was a ring of peculiar design and workmanship, which had 
once been the property of my father, and after his death had been 
worn by my mother until the time of her marriage with Mr. Gra- 
ham, when it was transferred to myself. I had ever prized it as 
a precious heirloom, and it was one of the few valuables which I 
took with me when I fled from my step-father’s house. This ring, 
with a watch and some other trinkets, had been left in the posses- 
41 


482 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


sign of Lucy when I parted with her at Rio, and the sight of it 
once more seemed to me like a voice from the grave. I eagerly 
sought to learn from my prisoner the source whence it had been 
obtained, but he maintained an obstinate silence. It was now my 
turn to plead and at length the promise of instant permission to 
depart, ‘ unwhipped by justice,’ at the conclusion of his tale, wrung 
from him a secret fraught to me with vital interest. What I 
learned from him, in disjointed and often incoherent phrases, I 
will relate to you in few words. 

“ This man was Stephen Grant, the son of my old friend Ben. 
He had heard from his father’s lips the story of your mother’s 
misfortunes ; and the circumstance of a violent quarrel, which arose 
between Ben and his vixen wife, at the young stranger’s introduc- 
tion to their household, impressed the tale upon his recollection. 
From his account, it appeared that my long-continued absence from 
Lucy, during the time of my illness, was construed by her honest 
but distrustful counsellor and friend into voluntary and cruel 
desertion. The poor girl, to whom my early life was all a mystery 
which she had never shared, and to whom much of my character 
and conduct was consequently inexplicable, began soon to feel 
convinced of the correctness of the old sailor’s suspicions and 
fears. She had already applied to my employer for information 
concerning me ; but he, who had heard of the pestilence to which 
I was exposed, and fully believed me to be among the dead, for- 
bore to distress her by a communication of his belief, and replied 
to her questionings with an obscurity which served to give new 
force to her hitherto vague and uncertain surmises. She posi- 
tively refused, however, to leave our home ; and, clinging to the 
hope of my final return thither, remained where I had left her 
until the terrible fever began its ravages. Her small stock of 
money was by this time consumed ; her strength both of mind and 
body gave way ; and Ben, becoming every day more confident that 
the simple-hearted Lucy had been betrayed and forsaken, per- 
suaded her at last to sell her furniture, and with the sum thus 
raised, flee the infected country before it should be too late. Sho 
sailed for Boston in the same vessel in which Ben shipped before 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


483 


the mast ; and on reaching that port, her humble protector took 
her immediately to the only home he had to offer. 

“There your mother’s sad fate found a mournful termination, 
t and you, her infant child, were left to the mercy of the cruel 
woman, who, but for her consciousness of guilt and her fear of its 
betrayal, would doubtless have thrust you at once from the misera- 
ble shelter her dwelling afforded. This guilt consisted in a foul 
robbery committed by Nan and her already infamous son upon 
your innopent and hapless mother, now rendered, through her fee- 
bleness, an easy prey to their rapacity. The fruits of this vile 
theft, however, were never participated in by Nan, whose promis* 
ing son so far exceeded her in duplicity and craft, that, having 
obtained possession of the jewels for the alleged purpose of barter- 
ing them away, he reserved such as he thought proper, and appro- 
priated to his own use the proceeds of the remainder. 

“ The antique ring which I now hold in my possession, the price- 
less relic of a mournful tragedy, would have shared the fate of 
the rest, but for its apparent worthlessness. To the luckless Ste- 
phen, however, it proved at last a temporary salvation from the 
felon's doom which must finally await that hardened sinner ; and 
to me — ah ! to me — it remains to be proved whether the knowl- 
edge of the secrets to which it has been the key will bless my 
future life, or darken it with a heavier curse ! Notwithstanding 
the information thus gained, and the exciting idea to which it gave 
rise, that my child might be still living and finally restored to me, 
I could not yet feel any security that these daring hopes were not 
destined to be crushed in their infancy, and that my newly-found 
treasure might not again elude my eager search. To my inquiries 
concerning you, Gertrude, Stephen, who had no longer any motives 
for concealing the truth, declared his inability to acquaint me with 
any particulars of a later period than the time of your residence 
with Trueman Flint, tie knew that the lamplighter had taken 
you to his home, and was accidentally made aware, a few months 
later, of your continuance in that place of refuge, from the old 
man’s being (to use my informant’s expression) such a confounded 
fool as to call upon his mother and voluntarily make <?ompensation 


484 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


for injury done to her windows in your outburst of childish 
revenge. 

“ Further than this I could learn nothing; but it was enough to 
inspire all my energies, and fill me with one desire only, — the 
recovery of my child. I hastened to Boston, had no difficulty in 
tracing your benefactor, and, though he had been long since dead, 
found many a truthful witness to his well-known virtues. Nor, 
when I asked for his adopted child, did I find her forgotten in the 
quarter of the city where she had passed her childhood. More 
than one grateful voice was ready to respond to my questioning, 
and to proclaim the cause they had to remember the girl who, hav- 
ing experienced the trials of poverty, made it both the duty and 
the pleasure of her prosperity to administer to the wants of a 
neighborhood whose sufferings she had aforetime both witnessed 
and shared. 

“ But, alas ! to complete the sum of sad vicissitudes with which 
my unhappy destiny was already crowded, at the very moment 
when I was assured of my daughter’s safety, and my ears were 
drinking in the sweet praises that accompanied the mention of her 
name, there fell upon me like a thunder-bolt the startling words, 

‘ She is now the adopted child of sweet Emily Graham, the blind 
girl.’ 

“ 0, strange coincidence ! 0, righteous retribution ! which, at the 
very moment when I was picturing to myself the consummation of 
my cherished hopes, crushed me once more beneath the iron hand 
of a destiny that would not be cheated of its victim ! 

“ My child, my only child, bound by the gratitude and love of 
years to one in whose face I scarcely dared to look, lest my soul 
should be withered by the expression of condemnation which the 
consciousness of my presence would inspire ! 

“ The seas and lands, which had hitherto divided us, seemed not 
to my tortured fancy so insurmountable a barrier between myself 
and my long-lost daughter as the dreadful reflection that the only 
earthly being whose love I had hoped in time to win had been 
reared from her infancy in a household where my very name was 
a thing abhorred. 

“ Stung to the quick by the harrowing thought that all my 


THE LAMPLIGHTEK. 


485 


prayers, entreaties, anl explanations could never undo her early 
impressions, and that aK ray labors and all my love could never 
call forth other than a cold and formal recognition of my claims, or, 
worse still, a feigned and hypocritical pretence of filial affection, I 
half resolved to leave my child in ignorance of her birth, and 
never seek to look upon her face, rather than subject her to the 
terrible necessity of choosing between the friend whom she loved 
and the father from whose crimes she had learned to shrink with 
horror and dread. 

“ After wrestling and struggling long with contending and 
warring emotions, I resolved to make one endeavor to see and 
recognize you, Gertrude, and at the same time guard myself from 
discovery. I trusted (and, as it proved, not without reason) to 
the immense change which time had wrought in my appearance, 
to conceal me effectually from all eyes but those which had known 
me intimately ; and therefore approached Mr. Graham’s house 
without the slightest fear of betrayal. I found it empty, and 
apparently deserted. 

“I now directed my steps to the well-remembered counting-room, 
and here learned from a clerk (who was, as it proved, but ill- 
informed concerning the movements of his master’s family), that 
the whole household, including yourself, had been passing the 
winter in Paris, and were at present at a German watering-place. 
Without hesitation, or further inquiry, I took the steamer to 
Liverpool, and from thence hastened to Baden-Baden, — -a tri- 
fling excursion in the eyes of a traveller of my experience. 

“ Without risking myself in the presence of my step-father, I 
took an early opportunity to obtain an introduction to Mrs. Gra- 
ham, and, thanks to her unreserved conversation, made myself 
master of the fact that Emily and yourself were left in Boston, and 
were, at that time, under the care of Dr. Jeremy. 

“ It was on my return voyage, which was immediately under- 
taken, that I made the acquaintance of Dr. Gryseworth and his 
daughter, — an acquaintance which accidentally proved of great 
value in facilitating my intercourse with yourself. 

“ Once more arrived in Boston, Dr. Jeremy’s house also wore a 
desolate appearance, and looked as if closed for the season. Thera 
41 * 


486 


THE LAMPLTOUTER. 


was a man, however, making some repairs about the door steps, 
who informed me that the family were absent from town. He was 
not himself aware of the direction they had taken ; but the ser- 
vants were at home, and could, no doubt, acquaint me with their 
route. Upon this, I boldly rung the door-bell. It was answered 
by Mrs. Ellis, the woman who, nearly twenty years before, had 
cruelly and unpityingly sounded in my ears the death-knell of all 
my hopes in life. I saw at once that my incognito was secure, as 
she met my keen and piercing glance without quailing, shrinking, 
or taking flight, as I fully expected she would do at sight of the 
ghost of my former self, 

“ She replied to my queries as coolly and collectedly as she had 
probably done during the day to some dozen of the doctor’s dis- 
appointed patients, — telling me that he had left that very morn- 
ing for New York, and would not be back for two or three weeks. 

“ Nothing could have been more favorable to my wishes than 
the chance thus afforded of overtaking your party, and, in the char- 
acter of a travelling companion, introducing myself gradually to your 
notice. 

“You knowhow this purpose was effected; how. now in the 
rear and now in advance, I nevertheless maintained a constant 
proximity to your footsteps. To add one particle to the comfort 
of yourself and Emily, — to learn your plans, forestall your wishes, 
secure to your use the best of rooms, and bribe to your service the 
most devoted of attendants, — I spared myself neither pains, fa- 
tigue, trouble, nor expense. 

“For much of the freedom with which I approached you, and 
made myself an occasional member of your circle, I was indebted 
to Emily’s blindness ; for I could not doubt that otherwise time 
and its changes would fail to conceal from her my identity, and 
I should meet with a premature recognition. Nor, until the final 
act of the drama, when death stared us all in the face, and con- 
cealment became impossible, did I once trust my voice to her 
hearing. 

“ How closely, during those few weeks, I watched and weighed 
your every word and action, seeking even to read your thoughts 
in youi face, none can tell whose acuteness is not sharpened and 


THE LAMPLIGHTER , 


487 


vivified by motives so all-engrossing as mine ; and who can meas- 
ure the anguish of the fond father, who, clay by day, learned to 
worship his child with a more absorbing idolatry, and yet dared 
not clasp her to his heart ! 

“ Especially when I saw you the victim of grief and trouble 
did I long to assert a claim to your confidence ; and more than 
once my self-control would have given way, but for the dread in- 
spired by the gentle Emily — gentle to all but me. I could not 
brook the thought that with my confession I should cease to be 
the trusted friend, and become the abhorred parent. I preferred 
to maintain my distant and unacknowledged guardianship of my 
child, rather than that she should behold in me the dreaded tyrant 
who might tear her from the home from which he had himself been 
driven, and the hearts which, though warm with love for her , were 
ice and stone to him. 

“ And so I kept silent; and, sometimes present to your sight, 
but still oftener hid from view, I hovered around your path, until 
that dreadful day, which you will long remember, when, everything 
forgotten but the safety of yourself and Emily, my heart spoke 
out, and betrayed my secret. 

“ And now you know all, — my follies, misfortunes, sufferings, 
and sins ! 

“ Can you love me, Gertrude? It is all I ask. I seek not to 
steal you from your present home — to rob poor Emily of a child 
whom she values perhaps as much as I. The only balm my 
wounded spirit seeks is the simple, guileless confession that you 
will at least try to love your father. 

“ I have no hope in this world, and none, alas ! beyond, but in 
yourself. Could you feel my heart now beating against its prison- 
bars, you would realize, as I do, that unless soothed it will burst 
ere long. Will you soothe it by your pity, my sweet, my darling 
child? Will you bless it by your love? If so, come, clasp your 
arms around me, and whisper to me words of peace. Within 
sight of your window, in the old summer-house at the end of the 
garden, with straining ear, I wait listening for your footsteps 11 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 


Around her path a vision’s glow is cast, 

Back, back her lost one comes in hues of morn . 

For her the gulf is filled, the dark night fled, 

Whose mystery parts the living and the dead. 

Hemans. 

As Gertrude’s eyes, after greedily devouring the manuscript, 
fell upon its closing words, she sprang to her feet, and the next 
instant her little room (the floor strewed with the scattered sheets 
which had* dropped from her lap as she rose) is left vacant. She 
has flown down the staircase, escaped through the hall-door, and, 
bounding over a lawn at the back of the house, now wet with the 
evening dew, she approaches the summer-house from the opposite 
entrance to that at which Mr. Amory, with folded arms and a 
fixed countenance, is watching for her coming. 

So noiseless is her light step, that, before he is conscious of her 
presence, she has thrown herself upon his bosom, and, her whole 
frame trembling with the vehemence of long-suppressed and now 
uncontrolled agitation, she bursts into a torrent of passionate 
tears, interrupted only by frequent sobs, so deep and so exhaust 
ing that her father, with his arms folded tightly around her, and 
clasping her so closely to his heart that she feels its irregular beat- 
ing, endeavors to still the tempest of her grief, whispering softly, 
as to an infant, “ Hush ! hush, my child ! you frighten me ! ” 

And, gradually soothed by his gentle caresses, her excitement 
subsides, and she is able to lift her face to his, and smile upon him 
through her tears. They stand thus for many minutes, in a 
silence that speaks far more than words. Wrapped in the folds 
of his heavy cloak to preserve her from the evening air, and still 
encircled in his strong embrace, Gertrude feels that their union of 
spirit is not less complete; while the long-banished man, who fo, 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


48 & 

years has nevei felt the sweet influence of a kindly smile, glows 
with a melting tenderness which hardening solitude has not had 
the power to subdue. 

Again and again the moon retires behind a cloud, and peeps 
out to find them still in the attitude in which she saw them last. 
At length, as she gains a broad and open expanse, and looks 
clearly down, Mr. Amory, lifting his daughter’s face, and gazing 
into her glistening eyes, while he gently strokes the disordered 
hair from her forehead, asks, in an accent of touching appeal, 
“You will love me then ? ” 

“ O, I do ! I do ! ” exclaimed Gertrude, sealing his lips with 
kisses. 

His hitherto unmoved countenance relaxes at this fervent assur- 
ance. He bows his head upon her shoulder, and the strong man 
weeps. 

Not long, however. Her self-possession all restored at seeing 
him thus overcome, Gertrude places her hand in his, and startles 
him from his position by the firm and decided tone with which she 
whispers, “ Come ! ” 

“ Whither ? ” exclaims he, looking up in surprise. 

“To Emily.” 

With a halfshudder, and a mournful shake of the head, he 
retreats, instead of advancing in the direction in which she would 
lead him, — “I cannot.” 

“ But she waits for you. She, too, weeps and longs and prays 
for your coming.” 

“ Emily ! — you know not what you are saying, my child ! ” 

“ Indeed, indeed, my father, it is you who are deceived. Emily 
does not hate you ; she never did. She believed you dead long 
ago ; but your voice, though heard but once, has half robbed her 
of her reason, so wholly, so entirely does she love you still 
Come, and she will tell you, better than I can, what a wretched 
mistake has made martyrs of you both.” 

Emily, who had heard the voice of Willie Sullivan, as he bade 
Gertrude farewell on the door-step, and rightly conjectured that it 
was he, forbore making any inquiries for the absent girl at the 
^ea-table, and, thmking it probable that she preferred to remain 


490 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


Undisturbed, retired to the sitting-room at the conclusion cf the 
meal, where (as Mr. Graham sought the library) she remained 
alone for more than an hour. 

It was a delightful, social-looking room. The fire still burned 
brightly, sending forth a ruddy glow, and (as the evening was 
unusually chilly for the season) rendering the temperature of the 
great old-fashioned parlor highly agreeable. There were candles 
under the mirror, but they did not give light enough to destroy 
the pleasant effect of the shadows which the fire-light made upon 
the wall and about the couch where Emily was reclining. 

The invalid girl, if we may call her such (for, in spite of ill- 
health, she still retained much of the freshness and all the loveli- 
ness of her girlhood), had, by chance, chosen such a position, 
opposite to the cheerful blaze, that its flickering light played about 
her face, and brought to view the rich and unwonted bloom which 
inward excitement had called up in her usually pale countenance. 
The exquisite and refined taste which always made Emily’s dress 
an index to the soft purity of her character was never more 
strikingly developed than when she wore, as on the present occa- 
sion, a flowing robe of white cashmere, fastened at the waist with 
a silken girdle, and with full drapery sleeves, whose lining and 
border of snowy silk could only have been rivalled by the delicate 
hand and wrist which had escaped from beneath their folds, and 
somewhat nervously played with the heavy crimson fringe of a 
shawl, worn in the chilly dining-room, and now thrown carelessly 
over the arm of the sofa. 

Supporting herself upon her elbow, she sat with her head bent 
forward, and, as she watched the images reflected in the glass of 
memory, one who knew her not, and was unaware of her want of 
sight, might have believed that, looking forth from her long, 
drooping eyelashes, she was tracing imaginary forms among the 
shining embers, so intently was her face bent in that direction. 

Occasionally, as the summer wind sighed among the branches 
^>f the trees, causing them to beat lightly against the window-pane, 
she would lift her head from the hand on which it rested, and, 
gracefully arching her slender throat, incline in a listening atti- 
tude, and then, as the trifling nature of the sound betrayed itself, 


THE LAMPLIGHTER, 


491 


she would sink, with a low sigh, into her former somewhat listless 
position. Once Mrs. Prime opened the door, looked around the 
room in search of the housekeeper, and, not finding her, -retreated 
across the passage, saying to herself, as she did so, “ Law ! dear 
sakes alive ! I wish she only had eyes now, to see how like a picter 
she looks ! ” 

At length a low, quick bark from the house-dog once more 
attracted her attention, and in a moment steps were heard crossing 
the piazza. 

Before they had gained the door, Emily was standing upright, 
straining her ear to catch the sound of every foot-fall ; and, when 
Gertrude and Mr. Amory entered, she looked more like a statue 
than a living figure, as, with clasped hands, parted lips, and one 
foot slightly advanced, she silently awaited their approach. 

One glance at Emily’s face, another at that of her agitated 
father, and Gertrude was gone. She saw the completeness of their 
mutual recognition, and, with instinctive delicacy, forbore to mar 
by her presence the sacredness of so holy an interview. 

As the door closed upon her retreating figure, Emily parted her 
clasped hands, stretched them forth into the dim vacancy, and 
murmured “ Philip ! ” 

He seized them between both of his, and, with one step for- 
ward, fell upon his knees. As he did so, the half-fainting girl 
dropped upon the seat behind her. Mr. Amory bowed his head 
upon the hands, which, still held tightly between his own, now 
rested on her lap ; and, hiding his face upon her slender fingers, 
tremblingly uttered her name. 

“ The grave has given up its dead ! ” exclaimed Emily. “ My 
God, I thank thee ! ” and, extricating her hands from his convul- 
sive grasp, she flung her arms around his neck, rested her head 
upon his bosom, and whispered, in a voice half choked with 
emotion, “ Philip ! — dear, dear Philip ! am I dreaming, or have 
you come back again? ” 

The conventional rules, the enforced restrictions, which often 
set limits to the outbursts of natural feeling, had no existence for 
one so wholly the child of nature as Emily. She and Philip had 
loved other in their childhood ; before that childhood was 


492 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


fully past, they had parted; and as children they met again, 
During the lapse of many years, in which, shut out from the 
world, she had lived among the cherished memories of the past, 
she had been safe from worldly contagion, and had retained all 
the guileless simplicity of girlhood, — all the freshness of her 
spring-time ; and Philip, who had never willingly bound himself 
by any ties save those imposed upon him by circumstance and 
necessity, felt his boyhood come rushing upon him once more, as, 
with Emily’s soft hand resting on his head, she blessed Heaven for 
his safe return. She could not see how time had silvered his hair, 
and sobered and shaded the face that she loved. Whether he 
came in the shape of the fiery-eyed youth that she saw him last, 
the middle-aged man, with hoary hair, whose years the curious 
found it hard to determine, or the glorified angel which she had 
pictured to herself in every dream of heaven, it was all alike to 
one whose world was a world of spirits. 

And to him, as he beheld the face he had half dreaded to 
encounter beaming with the holy light of sympathy and love, the 
blind girl’s countenance seemed encircled with a halo not of earth. 
And, therefore, this union had in it less of earth than heaven. 
Had they wakened on the other side the grave, and soul met soul 
in that happy land where the long-parted meet, their rapture could 
scarcely haVe been more pure, their happiness more unalloyed. 

Not until, seated beside each other, with their hands still fondly 
clasped, Philip had heard from Emily’s lips the history of her 
hopes, her fears, her prayers, and her despair, and she, while 
listening to the sad incidents of his life, had dropped upon the 
hand she held many a kiss and tear of sympathy, did either fully 
realize the mercy, so long delayed, so fully accorded now, w T hich 
promised even on earth to crown their days. 

Emily wept at the tale of Lucy’s trials and her early death ; 
and when she learned that it was hers and Philip’s child whom 
she had taken to her heart, and fostered with the truest affection, 
she sent up a silent prayer of gratitude that it had been allotted 
to her apparently bereaved and darkened destiny t & fulfil so 
blest a mission. 

“ T * T could love her more, dear Philip,” exclaimed she while 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


493 


the tears trickle 1 down her cheeks, “ I would do so, for your 
sake, and that of her sweet, innocent, suffering mother.” 

“And you forgive me, then, Emily?” said Philip, as, both 
haying finished their sad recitals of the past, they gave themselves 
up to the sweet reflection of their present joy. 

“ Forgive ? — 0, Philip ! what have I to forgive ? ” 

“ The deed that locked you in prison darkness,” he mournfully 
replied. 

“ Philip ! ” exclaimed Emily, in a reproachful tone, “ could you 
for one moment believe that I attributed that to you? — that I 
blamed you, for an instant, even in my secret thought? ” 

“Not willingly, I am sure, dear Emily. But, 0, you have 
forgotten what I can never forget, — - that in your time of anguish, 
not only the obtruding thought, but the lip that gave utterance to 
it, proclaimed how your soul refused to pity and forgive the cruel 
hand that wrought you so much woe ! ” 

“ You cruel, Philip ! Never, even in my wild frenzy, did I so 
abuse and wrong you. If my unfilial heart sinfully railed against 
the cruel injustice of my father, it was never guilty of such 
treachery towards you.” 

“ That fiendish woman lied, then, when she told me that you 
shuddered at my very name? ” 

“ If I shuddered, Philip, it was because my whole nature 
recoiled at the thought of the wrong that you had sustained ; and 
0, believe me, if she gave you any other assurance than of my 
continued love, it was because she labored under a sad and 
unhappy error.” 

“ Good heavens ! ” ejaculated Philip. “ How wickedly have I 
been deceived ! ” 

“Not wickedly,” replied Emily. “Mrs. Ellis, with all her 
stern formality, was, in that instance, the victim of circumstances. 
She was a stranger among us, and believed you other than you 
were ; but, had you seen her a few weeks later, sobbing over her 
share in the unhappy transaction which drove you to desperation, 
and, as we then supposed, to death, you would have felt, as I 
did, that we had greatly misjudged her in return, and that she 
carried a heart of flesh beneath a stony disguise. The bitterness 
42 


494 


TIfJB LAMPLIGHTER. 


of her grief astonished me at the time ; for 1 never until now bad 
reason to suspect that it was mingled with remorse at the recol- 
lection of her own harshness. Let us forget, however, the sad 
events of the past, and trust that the loving hand which has thus 
"for shaped our course has but afflicted us in mercy.’ ’ 

“ In mercy ! ” exclaimed Philip. “ What mercy does my past 
experience give evidence of, or your life of everlasting darkness ? 
Can you believe it a loving hand which made me the ill-fated 
instrument, and you the life-long sufferer, from one of the dreariest 
misfortunes that can afflict humanity ? ” 

“ Speak not of my blindness as a misfortune,” answered Emily ; 
“I have long ceased to think it such. It is only through the 
darkness of the night that we discern the lights of heaven, and 
only when shut out from earth that we enter the gates of Para- 
dise. With eyes to see the wonderful working of nature and 
nature’s God, I nevertheless closed them to the evidences of 
almighty love that were around me on every side. While enjoy- 
ing the beautiful and glorious gifts that were showered on my 
pathway, I forgot to thank and praise the Giver ; but with an un- 
grateful heart, walked sinfully and selfishly on, little dreaming of 
the beguiling and deceitful snares which entangle the footsteps of 
youth. 

“ And therefore did He, who is ever over us for good, arrest 
with fatherly hand the child who was wandering from the only 
road that leads to peace ; and, though the discipline of his 
chastening rod was sudden and severe, mercy still tempered jus- 
tice. From the tomb of my buried joys sprang hopes that will 
bloom in immortality. From the clouds and the darkness broke 
forth a glorious light. What was hidden from my outer sight 
became manifest to my awakened soul, and even on earth my 
troubled spirit gained its eternal rest. Then grieve not, dear 
Philip, over the fate that, in reality, is far from sad ; but rejoice 
with me in the thought of that blessed and not far distant awak- 
ening, when, with restored and beatified vision, I shall stand 
before God’s throne, in full view of that glorious Presence, from 
which, but for the guiding light which has bu\'st upon my spirit 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


495 


through the eeil of earthly darkness, I might have been eternally 
shut out.” 

As Emily finished speaking, and Philip, gazing with awe upon 
the rapt expression of her soul-illumined face, beheld the triumph 
of an immortal mind, and pondered on the might, the majesty and 
power, of the influence wrought by simple piety, the door of the 
room opened abruptly, and Mr. Graham entered. 

The sound of the well-known footstep disturbed the soaring 
thoughts of both, and the flush of excitement which had mounted 
into Emily’s cheeks subsided into more than her wonted paleness, 
as Philip, rising slowly and deliberately from his seat at her side, 
stood face to face with her father. 

Mr. Graham approached with the puzzled and scrutinizing air 
of one who finds himself called upon in the character of a hosfc 
to greet a visitor who, though an apparent stranger, may possibly 
have claims to recognition, and glanced at his daughter, as if hoping 
she would relieve the awkwardness by an introduction. But the 
agitated Emily maintained perfect silence, and every feature of 
Philip’s countenance remained immovable as Mr. Graham slowly 
came forward. 

He had advanced within one step of the spot where Philip 
stood waiting to receive him, when, struck by the stern look and 
attitude of the latter, he stopped short, gazed one moment into 
the eagle eyes of his step-son, then staggered, grasped at the 
mantle-piece, and would have fallen; but Philip, starting for- 
ward, helped him to his arm-chair, which stood opposite to the 
sofa. 

Ami yet no word was spoken. At length Mr. Graham, who, 
having fallen into the seat, sat still gazing into the face of Mr. 
Amory, ejaculated, in a tone of wondering excitement, “ Philip 
Amory ! 0, my God ! ” 

“Yes, father,” exclaimed Emily, suddenly rising and grasping 
her father’s arm. “It is Philip ; he, whom we have so long be- 
lieved among the dead, restored to us in health and safety ! ” 

Mr. Graham rose from his chair, and, leaning heavily on Em- 
ify’s shoulder, again approached Mr. Amory, who, with folded arms, 
Ltood fixed as marble. His step tottered with a feebleness never 


496 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


before observable in the sturdy frame of the old man, and tha 
hand which he extended to Philip was marked by an unusual 
tremulousness. 

But Philip did not offer to receive the proffered hand, or reply 
by word to the rejected salutation. 

Mr. Graham turned towards Emily, and, forgetting that this 
neglect was shut from her sight, exclaimed half-bitterly, half- 
sadly, “ I cannot blame him ! God knows* I wronged the boy ! ” 

“ Wronged him ! ” cried Philip, in a voice so deep as to be 
almost fearful. “ Yes, wronged him, indeed ! Blighted his life, 
crushed his youth, half-broke his heart, and wholly blasted his 
reputation ! ” 

“ No,” exclaimed Mr. Graham, who had quailed beneath these 
accusations, until he reached the final one. “Not that, Philip! 
not that ! I never harmed you there. I discovered my error 
before I had doomed you to infamy in the eyes of one of your 
fellow-men.” 

“You acknowledge, then, the error?” 

“ I do, I do ! I imputed to you the deed which proved to have 
been accomplished through the agency of my most confidential 
clerk. I learned the truth almost immediately ; but too late, 
alas ! to recall you. Then came the news of your death, and I 
felt that the injury had been irreparable. But it was not strange, 
Philip ; you must allow that. Archer had been in my employment 
more than twenty years. I had a right to believe him trust- 
worthy.” 

“ No ! 0, no ! ” replied Philip. “ It was nothing strange that, 
a crime committed, you should have readily ascribed it to me. 
You thought me capable only of evil.” 

“ I was unjust, Philip,” answered Mr. Graham, with an attempt 
to rally his dignity, “but I had some cause, — I had some 
cause.” 

“ Perhaps so,” responded Philip ; “lam willing to grant that.” 

“ Let us shake hands upon it, then,” said Mr. Graham, “ anil 
endeavor to forget the past.” 

Philip did not again refuse to accede to this request, though 


TIIE LAMPLIGHTER. 


497 


there was but little warmth or eagerness in the manner of his 
compliance. 

Mr. Graham, seeming now to think the matter quite ended, 
looked relieved, and as if he had shaken off a burden which had 
been weighing upon his conscience for years (for he had a con- 
science, though not a very tender one) ; and, subsiding into his 
arm-chair, begged to learn the particulars of Philip’s experience 
during the last twenty years. 

The outline of the story was soon told, Mr. Graham listening 
to it with attention, and inquiring into its particulars with an 
interest which proved that, during lengthened period of regret 
and remorse, his feelings had sensibly softened towards the step- 
son with every memory of whom there had come to his heart a 
pang of self-reproach. 

Mr. Amory was unable to afford any satisfactory explanation of 
the report of his own death, which had been confidently affirmed 
by Dr. Jeremy’s correspondent at Rio. Upon a comparison of 
dates, however, it seemed probable that the doctor’s agent had 
obtained this information from Philip’s employer, who, for some 
weeks previous to his own death, had every reason to believe that 
the young man had perished of the infection prevailing in the low 
and unhealthy region to which he had been despatched. 

To Philip himself it was an almost equal matter of wonder that 
his friends should ever have obtained knowledge of his flight and 
destination. Rut this was more easily accounted for, since the 
vessel in which he had embarked returned directly to Boston, and 
there were among her crew and officers those who had ample 
means of replying to the inquiries which the benevolent doctor had 
set on foot some months before, and which, being accompanied by 
the offer of a liberal reward, had not yet ceased to attract the 
attention of the public. 

Notwithstanding the many strange and romantic incidents which 
were unfolding themselves, none seemed to produce so great an 
impression upon Mr. Graham’s mind as the singular circumstance 
that the child who had been reared under his roof, and endeared 
herself to him, in spite of some clashing of interests and opinions, 
should prove to be Philip’s daughter. As he left the room, at 
42 * 


498 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


the conclusion of the tale, and again sought the solitude of lm 
library, he muttered to himself more than once, “ Singular .coinci- 
dence ! Very singular ! Very! ” 

Hardly had he departed, before another door was timidly 
opened, and Gertrude looked cautiously in. 

Her father went quickly towards her, and, passing his arm 
around her waist, drew her towards Emily, and clasped them both 
in a long and silent embrace. 

“ Philip, ” exclaimed Emily, “ can you still doubt the mercy and 
love which have spared us for such a meeting? ” 

“ O, Emily ! ” replied he^“ I am deeply grateful. Teach me 
how and where to bestow my tribute of praise.” 

On the hour of sweet communion which succeeded we forbeai 
to dwell ; — the silent rapture of Emily, the passionately -expressed 
joy of Philip, or the trusting, loving glances which Gertrude cast 
upon both. 

It was nearly midnight when Mr. Amory rose, and announced 
his intention to depart. Emily, who had not thought of his 
leaving the spot which she hoped he would now consider his home, 
entreated him to remain ; and Gertrude, with her eyes, joined in 
the eager petition. But he persisted in his resolution with a firm- 
ness and seriousness which proved how vain would be the attempt 
to shake it. . , 

“Philip,” said Emily, at length, laying her hand upon his arm, 
“ you have not yet forgiven my father.” 

She had divined his thoughts. He shrank under her reproach- 
ful tones, and made no answer. 

“ But you will, dear Philip, — you will” continued she, in a 
pleading voice. 

He hesitated, then glanced at her once more, and replied, “I 
will, dearest Emily, I will — in time.” 

When he had gone, Gertrude lingered a moment at the door, 
to watch his retreating figure, just visible in the light of the wan- 
ing moon ; then returned to the parlor, drawing a long breath and 
saying, “ 0, what a day this has been ! ” but checked herself, at 
the sight of Emily, who, kneeling by the sofa, with clasped hands. 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


41)9 


uplifted face, and with her white garments sweeping th<b floor, 
looked the very impersonation of purity and prayer. 

Throwing one arm around her neck, Gertrude knelt on the floor 
beside her, and together they sent up to the throne of God the 
incense of thanksgiving and praise 1 


CHAPTER XLIX . 


Thee have I loved, thou gentlest, from a child, 

And borne thine image with me o’er the sea, — 

Thy soft voice in my soul, — speak ! O, yet live for me ! 

Hemans. 

When Uncle True died, Mr. Cooper reverently buried his old 
friend in the ancient grave-yard which adjoined the church where 
he had long officiated as sexton. It was a dilapidated-looking 
place, whose half-fallen and moss-grown stones proclaimed its 
recent neglect and disuse. But long before the adjacent and time- 
worn building gave place to a modern and more imposing structure 
the hallowed remains of Uncle True had found a quieter resting- 
place. 

With that good taste and good feeling which, in latter days, has 
dedicated to the sacred dead some of the fairest spots on earth, a 
beautiful pi£ce of undulating woodland in the neighborhood of Mr. 
Graham’s country residence had been consecrated as a rural cem- 
etery, and in the loveliest nook of this sweet and venerated spot 
the ashes of the good old lamplighter found their final repose. 

This lot of land, which had been purchased through Willie’s 
thoughtful liberality, selected by Gertrude, and by her made fra- 
grant and beautiful with summer rose and winter ivy, now enclosed 
also the forms of Mr. Cooper and Mrs. Sullivan ; and over these 
three graves Gertrude had planted many a flower, and watered it 
with her tears. Especially did she view it as a sacred duty and 
privilege to mark the anniversary of the death of each by a tribute 
of fresh garlands ; and, with this pious purpose in view, she left 
Mr. Graham’s house one beautiful afternoon, about a week after 
the events took place which are narrated in the previous chapter. 

She carried on li er arm a basket, which contained her offering 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


501 


of flowers ; and, as she had a long walk before her, started at a 
rapid pace. Let ns follow her, and briefly pursue the train of 
thought which accompanied her on her way. 

She had left her father with Emily. She would not ask him to 
loin her in her walk, though he had once expressed a desire to visit 
the grave of Uncle True ; for he and Emily were talking togethei 
go contentedly, it would have been a pity to disturb them ; and foi 
a few moments Gertrude’s reflections were engrossed by the thought 
of their calm and tranquil happiness. She thought of herself, too, 
ns associated with them both ; of the deep and long-tried love of 
Emily, and of the fond outpourings of affection daily and hourly 
lavished upon her by her newly-found parent, and felt that she 
could scarcely repay their kindness by the devotion of a lifetime. 

Now and then, as she dwelt in her musings upon the sweet tie 
between herself and Emily, which had gained strength with every 
succeeding year, and the equally close and kindred union between 
father and child, which, though recent in its origin, was scarcely 
capable of being more firmly cemented by time, her thoughts 
would, in spite of herself, wander to that earlier-formed and not 
less tender friendship, now, alas ! sadly ruptured and wounded, if 
not wholly uprooted and destroyed. She tried to banish the 
remembrance of Willie’s faithlessness and desertion, deeming it 
the part of an ungrateful spirit to mourn over past hopes, regard- 
less of the blessings that yet remained. She tried to keep in mind 
the resolutions lately formed to forget the most painful feature in 
her past life, and consecrate the remainder of her days to the hap- 
piness of her father and Emily. 

But it would not do. The obtruding and painful recollection 
presented itself continually, notwithstanding her utmost efforts to 
repress it, and at last, ceasing the struggle, she gave herself up 
for the time to a deep and saddening revery. 

She had received two visits from Willie since the one already 
mentioned ; but the second meeting had been in its character very 
similar to the first, and on the succeeding occasion the constraint had 
increased instead of diminishing. Several times Willie had made 
an apparent effort to break through this unnatural barrier, and 
speak and act with the freedom of former days ; but a sudden 


502 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


blush, or sign of confusion and distress, on Gertrude’s part, do* 
terred him from any further attempt to put to flight the reserve and 
want of confidence which subsisted in their intercourse. Again, 
Gertrude, who had resolved, previous to his last visit, to meet him 
with the frankness and cordiality which he might reasonably 
expect, smiled upon him affectionately at his coming, and offered 
her hand with such sisterly freedom, that he was emboldened to 
take and retain it in his grasp, and was evidently on the point of 
unburdening his mind of some weighty secret, when she turned 
abruptly away, took up some trivial piece of work, and, while she 
seemed wholly absorbed in it, addressed to him an unimportant 
question, ■ — a course of conduct which put to flight all his ideas, 
and disconcerted him for the remainder of his stay. 

As Gertrude pondered the awkward and distressing results of 
every visit he had made her, she half hoped he would discontinue 
them altogether, believing that the feelings of both would be less 
wounded by a total separation than by interviews which must 
leave on the mind of each a still greater sense of estrangement. 

Strange as it may seem, she had not yet acquainted him with 
the event so deep in its interest to herself, — the discovery of her 
dearly-loved father. Once she tried to speak of it, but found her- . 
self so overcome, at the very idea of imparting to the confidant of 
her childhood an experience of which she could scarcely yet think 
without emotion, that she paused in the attempt, fearing that, 
should she, cn any topic, give way to her sensibilities, she should 
lose all restraint over her feelings, and lay open her whole heart 
to Willie. 

But there was one thing that distressed her more than all others. 
In his first vain attempt to throw off all disguise, Willie had more 
than intimated to her his own unhappiness ; and, ere she could 
find an opportunity to change the subject, and repel a confidence 
for which she still felt herself unprepared, he had gone so far as to 
sjieak mournfully of his future prospects in life. 

The only construction which Gertrude could give to this confes- 
sion was that it had reference to his enslavement with Isabel ; and 

O O 1 

It gave rise at once to the suspicion that, infatuated by her beauty, 
he had impulsively and heedlessly bound himself to one who could 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


503 


never make him wholly happy. The little scenes to which she 
had herself been a witness corroborated this idea, as, on both 
occasions of her seeing the lovers and overhearing their words, 
some cause of vexation seemed to exist on Willie’s part. 

“ He loves her,” thought Gertrude, “ and is also bound to her 
in honor; but he sees already the want of harmony in their 
natures. Poor Willie ! It is impossible he should ever be happy 
with Isabel.” 

And Gertrude’s sympathizing heart mourned not more deeply 
over her own grief than over the disappointment that Willie must 
be experiencing, if he had ever hoped to find peace in a union 
with so overbearing, ill-humored, and unreasonable a girl. 

Wholly occupied with these and similar musings, she walked on 
with a pace of whose quickness she was scarcely herself aware, 
and soon gained the shelter of the heavy pines which bordered 
the entrance to the cemetery. Here she paused for a moment to 
enjoy the refreshing breeze that played beneath the branches ; and 
then, passing through the gateway, entered a carriage-road at the 
right, and proceeded slowly up the gradual ascent. The place, always 
quiet and peaceful, seemed unusually still and secluded, and, save 
the occasional carol of a bird, there was no sound to disturb the 
perfect silence and repose. As Gertrude gazed upon the familiar 
beauties of those sacred grounds, which had been her frequent resort 
during several years, — * as she walked between beds of flowers, 
inhaled the fragrant and balmy air, and felt the solemn appeal, the 
spiritual breathings, that haunted the holy place, — .every emotion 
that was not in harmony with the scene gradually took its flight, 
and she experienced only that sensation of sweet and half-joyful 
melancholy which was awakened by the thought of the happy dead. 

After a while, she left the broad road which she had been fol- 
lowing, and turned into a little by-path. This she pursued for 
some distance ; and then, again diverging through another and 
still narrower foot-track, gained the shady^and retired spot which, 
partly from its remoteness to the public walks, and partly from 
its own natural beauty, had attracted her attention and recom- 
mended itself to her choice. It was situated on the slope of a 
little hill ; a huge rock protected it on one side from the observa* 


504 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


tion of the passer-by, and a fine old oak overshadowed it upon the 
other. The iron enclosure, of simple workmanship, was nearly 
overgrown by the green ivy, which had been planted there by 
Gei trade’s hand, and the moss-grown rock also was festooned by 
its graceful and clinging tendrils. Upon a jutting piece of stone, 
directly beside the grave of Uncle True, Gertrude seated herself, 
as was her wont, and after a few moments of contemplation, during 
which she sat with her elbow upon her knee and her head resting 
upon her hand, she straightened her slight figure, sighed heavily, 
and then, lifting the cover of her basket, emptied her flowers upon 
the grass, and with skilful fingers commenced weaving a graceful 
chaplet, which, when completed, she placed upon the grave at her 
feet. With the remainder of the blossoms she strewed the other 
mounds ; and then, drawing forth a pair of gardening-gloves and 
a little trowel, she employed herself for nearly an hour among 
the flowers and vines with which she had embowered the spot. 

Her work at last being finished, she again placed herself at the 
foot of the old rock, removed her gloves, pushed back from her 
forehead the simple but heavy braids of her hair, and appeared to 
be resting from her labors. 

It was seven years that day since Uncle True died, but the time 
had not yet come for Gertrude to forget the simple, kind old man. 
Often did his pleasant smile and cheering words come to her in 
her dreams ; and both by day and night did the image of him who 
had gladdened and blessed her childhood encourage her to the 
imitation of his humble and patient virtue. As she gazed upon 
the grassy mound that covered him, and scene after scene rose up 
before her in which that earliest friend and herself had whiled 
away the happy hours, there came, to embitter the otherwise cher- 
ished remembrance, the recollection of that third and seldom 
absent one, who completed and made perfect the memory of their 
fireside joys ; and Gertrude, while yielding to the inward reflec- 
tion, unconsciously exclaimed aloud, “0, Uncle True ! you and 
I are not parted yet ; but Willie is not of us ! ” 

“0, Gertrude,” said a reproachful voice close at her side \ 
“ is Willie to blame for that? ” 

She started, turned, saw the object of her thoughts with his 


TU3? LAMPLIGHTER. 


505 


mild sad eyes fixed inquiringly upon her, and, without replying to 
his question, buried her face in her hands. 

He threw himself upon the ground at her feet, and, as on the 
occasion of their first childish interview, gently lifted her bowed 
head from the hands upon which it had fallen, and compelled her 
to look him in the face, saying, at the same time, in the most im- 
ploring accents, “ Tell me, Gerty, in pity tell me why am I ex- 
cluded from your sympathy ? ” 

But still she made no reply, except by the tears that coursed 
down her cheeks. 

“ You make me miserable,” continued he, vehemently. “ What 
have I done that you have so shut me out from your affection ? 
Why do you look so coldly upon me, — and even shrink from my 
sight ? ” added he, as Gertrude, unable to endure his steadfast, 
searching look, turned her eyes in another direction, and strove to 
free her hands from his grasp. 

“ I am not cold, — I do not mean to be,” said she, her voice 
half-choked with emotion. 

“ 0, Gertrude,” replied he, relinquishing her hands, and 
turning away, “ I see you have wholly ceased to love me. I 
trembled when I first beheld you, so lovely, so beautiful, and so 
beloved by all, and feared lest some fortunate rival had stolen 
your heart from its boyish keeper. But even then I did not 
dream that you would refuse me, at least, a brother’s claim to 
your affection.” 

> “ I will not,” exclaimed Gertrude eagerly. “ 0, Willie, you 
must not be angry with me ! Let me be your sister ! ” 

He smiled a most mournful smile. “ I was right, then,” con- 
tinued he ; “ you feared lest I should claim too much, and dis- 
couraged my presumption by awarding me nothing. Be it so. 
Perhaps your prudence was fcr the best; but 0, Gertruds, it 
has made me heart-broken ! ” 

“ Willie,” exclaimed Gertrude, with excitement, “ do you know 
how strangely you are speaking ? ” 

“ Strangely ? ” responded Willie, in a half-offended tone. “ Is 
it so strange that I should love you ? Have I not for y ears 
cherished tb c emembrance of our past affection, and looked for 


506 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


ward to our reunion as my only hope of happiness? lias not 
this fond expectation inspired my T abors, and cheered ny toils, 
and endeared to me my life, in spite of its bereavements < And 
can you, in the very sight of these cold mounds, beneath vhicb 
lie buried all else that I held dear on earth, crush and d stray, 
without compassion, this solitary but all engrossing — ” 

“Willie,” interrupted Gertrude, her calmness suddenly re* 
stored, and speaking in a kind but serious tone, “ is it honorable 
for you to address me thus? Have you forgotten — ” 

“ No, I have not forgotten,” exclaimed he, vehemently. “ 1 
have not forgotten that I have no right to distress or annoy you, 
and I will do so no more. But, 0, Gerty ! my sister Gerty (since 
all hope of a nearer tie is at an end), blame me not, and wondei 
not, if I fail at present to perform a brother’s part. I cannot 
stay in this neighborhood. I cannot be the patient witness of 
another’s happiness. My services, my time, my life, you may 
command, and in my far-distant home I will never cease to pray 
that the husband you have chosen, whoever he be, may prove 
himself worthy of my noble Gertrude, and love her one-half as 
well as I do ! ” 

“ Willie,” said Gertrude, “ what madness is this ? I am bound 
by no such tie as you describe ; but what shall I think of your 
treachery t6 Isabel ? ” 

“ To Isabel ? ” cried Willie, starting up, as if seized with a 
new idea. “And has that silly rumor reached you too ? and did 
you put faith in the falsehood ? ” 

“Falsehood!” exclaimed Gertrude, lifting her hitherto droop* 
ing eyelids, and casting upon him, through their wet lashes, a look 
of earnest scrutiny. 

Calmly returning a glance which he had neither avoided noi 
quailed under, Willie responded, unhesitatingly, and with a tone 
of astonishment not unmingled with reproach, “Falsehood? — 
Yes. With the knowledge you have both of her and myself, 
could you doubt its being such for a moment ? ” 

“ O, Willie ! ” cried Gertrude, “ could I doubt the evidence 
of my own eyes and ears ? Had I trusted to less faithful witness- 
es, I might have been deceived. Do not attempt to conceal from 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


aie the truth to which my own observation can testify. Treat 
me with frankness, Willie! — Indeed, indeed, I deserve it at 
your hands ! ” 

“ Frankness, Gertrude ! It is you only who are mysterious. 
Could I lay my whole soul bare to your gaze, you would be con- 
vinced of its truth, its perfect truth, to its first affection. And as 
to Isabel Clinton, if it is to her that you have reference, your 
eyes and your ears have both played you false, if — ” 

“ O, Willie ! Willie ! ” exclaimed Gertrude, interrupting him, 
“have you so soon forgotten your devotifln to the belle of Saratoga 
your unwillingness to sanction her temporary absence from your 
sight ; the pain which the mere suggestion of the journey caused 
you, and the fond impatience which threatened to render those 
few days an eternity ? ” 

“ Stop ! stop ! ” cried Willie, a new light breaking in upon 
him, “ and tell me where you learned all this.” 

“ In the very spot where you spoke and acted. Mr. Graham’s 
parlor did not witness our first meeting. In the public prome- 
nade-ground, on the shore of Saratoga lake, and on board the 
steamboat at Albany, did I both see and recognize you — myself 
unknown. There too did your own words serve to convince me 
of the truth of that which from other lips I had refused to be- 
lieve.” 

The sunshine which gilds the morning is scarcely more bright 
and gladsome than the glow of rekindled hope which now ani- 
mated the face of Willie. 

“ Listen to me, Gertrude,” said he, in a fervent and almost 
solemn tone, “ and believe that in sight of my mother’s grave, and 
in the presence of that pure spirit (and he looked reverently up- 
ward) who taught me the love of truth, I speak with such sincer- 
ity and candor as are fitting for the ears of angels. I do not 
question the accuracy with which you overheard my expostulations 
and entreaties on the subject of Miss Clinton’s proposed journey, 
or the impatience I expressed at parting for her speedy return. 
I will not pause, either, to inquire where the object of all my 
thoughts could have been at the time, that, notwithstanding the 
changes of years, she escaped my eager eyes. Let me first dear 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


50 * 

myself of the Imputation under which I labor, and then there wiO 
be room for all further explanations. 

“ I did, indeed, feel deep pain at Miss Clinton’s sudden depart 
ure for New York, under a pretext which ought not to have 
weighed with her for a moment. I did indeed employ every ar 
gument to dissuade her from her purpose; and when my elo- 
quence had failed to induce the abandonment of the scheme, J 
availed myself of every suggestion and motive which might pos- 
sibly influence her to shorten her absence. Not because the 
society of the selfish girl was essential, or even conducive, to my 
own happiness, — far from it, — but because her excellent father, 
who so worshipped and idolized his only child that he would have 
thought no sacrifice too great by means of which he could add 
one particle to her enjoyment, was, at that very time, amid all 
the noise and discomfort of a crowded watering-place, hovering 
between life and death, and I was disgusted at the heartlessness 
which voluntarily left the fondest of parents deprived of all fe- 
male tending, to the charge of a hired nurse, and an unskilful 
though willing youth like myself. That eternity might, in Miss 
Clinton’s absence, set a seal to the life of her father, was a 
thought which, in my indignation, I was on the point of uttering; 
but I checked myself, unwilling to interfere too far in a matter 
which came not within my rightful province, and perhaps excite 
unnecessary alarm in Isabel. If selfishness mingled at all in my 
views, dear Gerty, and made me over-impatient for the return of 
the daughter to her post of duty, it was that I might be released 
from almost constant attendance upon my invalid friend, and 
hasten to her from whom I hoped such warmth of greeting as I 
was only too eager to bestow. Can you wonder, then, that your 
reception struck cold upon my throbbing heart ? ” 

“ But you understand the cause that coldness now,” said 
Gertrude, looking up at him through a rain of tears, which, like 
a summer sun-shower, reflected itself in rainbow smiles upon her 
happy countenance. “ You know now why I dared not let my 
nea'rt speak out.” 

“And this was all, then ?” cried Willie ; “and you are free 
wad T may love you ntill ’ ” 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


boy 

‘ Free from all bonds, dear Willie, but those which you yourself 
clasped around me, and which have encircled me from my child- 
hoods 

And now, with heart pressed to heart, they pour in each other’s 
ear the tale of a mutual affection, planted in infancy, nourished in 
youth, fostered and strengthened amid separation and absence, and 
perfected through trial, to bless and sanctify every year of theii 
after life. 

“ But, Gerty,” exclaimed Willie, as, confidence restored, they 
sat side by side, conversing freely of the past, “ how could you 
think, for an instant, that Isabel Clinton would have power to dis- 
place you in my regard ? I was not guilty of so great an injus- 
tice towards you ; for, even when I believed myself supplanted by 
another, I fancied that other some hero of such shining qualities 
as could scarcely be surpassed.” 

“ And who could surpass Isabel ? ” inquired Gerty. “ Can you 
wonder that I trembled for your allegiance, when I thought of her 
beauty, her fashion, her family and her wealth, and remembered 
the forcible manner in which all these were presented to your sight 
and knowledge ? ” 

“ But what are all these, Gerty, to one who knows her as we 
io ? Do not a proud eye and a scornful lip destroy the effect of 
beauty ? Can fashion excuse rudeness, or noble birth cover 
natural deficiencies ? And, as to money, what did I ever want 
of that, except to employ it for the happiness of yourself — and 
them ? ” — and he glanced at the graves of his mother and grand- 
father. 

“ 0, Willie ! You are so disinterested ! ” 

“ Not in this case. Had Isabel possessed the beauty of a Venus 
and the wisdom of a Minerva, I could not have forgotten how 
little happiness there could be with one who, while devoting 
herself to the pursuit of pleasure, had become dead to natural 
affections, and indifferent to the holiest of duties. Could I see 
her flee from the bed-side of her father to engage in the frivolities 
and drink in the flatteries of an idle crowd, — or, when unwillingly 
summoned thither, shrink from tfie toils and the watchings imposed 
by hi£ feebleness, — and still imagine that such a woman could bless 


510 


THE LA M PLIGHT EK. 


and adorn a fireside ? Could I fail to contrast tier unfeeling 
neglect, ill-concealed petulance, flagrant levity and irreverence of 
spirit, with the sweet and loving devotion, the saintly patience, 
and the deep ai.d fervent piety, of my own Gertrude * I should 
have been false to myself, as well as to you, dearest, it such traits 
of character as Miss Clinton constantly evinced could have weak- 
ened my love and admiration for yourself. And now, to see the 
little playmate whose image I cherished so fondly matured into 
the lovely and graceful woman, her sweet attractions crowned by 
so much beauty as almost to place her beyond recognition, and 
still her heart as much my own as ever ! — 0, Gerty, it is too 
much happiness ! Would that I could impart a share of it to 
those who loved us both so well ! ” 

And who cau say that they did not share it ? — that the spirit ot 
Uncle True was not there, to witness the completion of his many 
hopeful prophecies ? that the old grandfather was not there, to 
see all his doubts and fears giving place to joyful certainties 
and that the soul of the gentle mother, whose rapt slumbers had, 
even in life, foreshadowed such a meeting, and who, by the lessons 
she had given her child in his boyhood, the warnings spoken to 
his later years, and the ministering guidance of her disembodied 
spirit, had fitted him for the struggle with temptation, sustained 
him through its trials, and restored him triumphant to the sweet 
friend of his infancy, — who shall say that, even now, she hov- 
ered not over them with parted wings, realizing the joy prefigured 
in that dreamy vision which pictured to her sight the union be- 
tween the son and daughter of her love, when the one, shielded 
by her fond care from every danger, and snatched from the power 
of temptation, should be restored to the arms of the other, who, 
by long and patient continuance in well-doing had earned sc full 
a recompense, so all-sufficient a reward 1 


CHAPTBB L. 


« through night to light — in every stag©, 

From childhood’s morn to hoary ago, 

What shall illume the pilgrimage 
By mortals trod 1 

“ There is a pure and heavenly ray, 

That brightest shines in darkest day, 

When earthly beams are quenched for aye ; 

’T is lit by God.” 

The Ban vas casting long shadows, and the sunset hour wai 
near, when Gertrude and Willie rose to depart. They left the 
cemetery by a different gateway, and in the opposite direction to 
that by which Gertrude had entered. Here Willie found the 
chaise in which he had come, though the horse had contrived to 
loosen the bridle by which he was fastened ; had strayed to the 
side of the road, eaten as much grass as he wished, or the place 
afforded, and was now sniffing the air, looking up and down the 
road, and, despairing of his master’s return, seemed on the point 
of taking his departure. 

He was reclaimed, however, without difficulty, and, as if glad 
after his long rest to be again in motion, brought them in half an 
hour to Mr. Graham’s door. 

As soon as they came in sight of the house, Gertrude, familial 
with the customary ways of' the family, perceived that something 
unusual was going forward. Lamps were moving about in every 
direction ; the front-door stood wide open ; there was, what she had 
never seen before, the blaze of a bright fire discernible through 
the windows of the best chamber ; and, as they drew still nearer, 
she observed that the piazza was half covered with trunks. 

All these appearances, as she rightly conjectured, betokened the 


512 


THE LAMPLIGHTER* 


arrival of Mrs. Graham, and possibly of other company. She 
might, perhaps, have regretted the ill-timed coming of this bustling 
lady, at the very moment when she was eager for a quiet oppor- 
tunity to present Willie to Emily and her father, and communicate 
to them her own happiness ; but, if such a thought presented 
itself, it vanished in a moment. Her joy was too complete to be 
marred by so trifling a disappointment. 

“ Let us drive up the avenue, Willie,” said she, “ to the side- 
door, so that George may see us. and take your horse to the 
stable.” 

“ No,” said Willie, as he stopped opposite the front gate ; “ I 
can’t come in now — there seems to be a house full of company ; 
and, besides, I have an appointment in town at eight o’clock, and 
promised to be punctual ; ” — he glanced at his watch as he spoke, 
and added, “ it is near that already. I did not think of its being 
so late ; but I shall see you to-morrow morning, may I not ? 
She looked her assent, and, with a warm grasp of the hand as he 
helped her from the chaise, and a mutual smile of confidence and 
love, they separated. 

He drove rapidly towards Boston, and she, opening the gate, 
found herself in the arms of Fanny Bruce, who had been impa- 
tiently awaiting the departure of Willie to seize her dear Miss 
Gertrude, and, between tears and kisses, pour out her congratula- 
tions and thanks for her happy escape from that horrid steam- 
boat ; for this was the first time they had met since the accident. 

“ Has Mrs. Graham come, Fanny ? ” asked Gertrude, as, the 
first excitement of the meeting over, they walked up to the house 
together. 

“ Yes, indeed, Mrs. Graham, and Kitty, and Isabel, and a 
little girl, and a sick gentleman, — Mr. Clinton, I believe ; and 
mother gentleman, — but he ’ s gone.” 

“ Who has gone ? ” 

“ 0, a tall, dignified-looking man, with black eyes, and a beau- 
*iul face, and hair as white as if he were old* — and he is n’t old, 
father.” 

u And do you say he has gone ? ” 

‘‘ i sa ; he did n’t come with the rest He Was here when l 


THE LAMPLIGHTER, 


513 


came, anu I13 wait away about an hour ago. I heard him tell 
Miss Emily that he had agreed to meet a friend in Boston, but 
perhaps he ’d come back this evening. I hope he will, Miss Ger- 
trude ; you ought to see him.” 

They had now reached the house, and, through the open door, 
Gertrude could plainly distinguish the loud tones of Mrs. Gra- 
ham’s voice, proceeding from the parlor on the right. She was 
talking to her husband and Emily, and was just saying, as Ger- 
trude entered, “ 0 , it was the most awful thing I ever heard of 
in my life ! and to think, Emily, of your being on board, and 
our Isabel ! Poor child ! she has n’t got her color back yet, after 
her fright. And Gertrude Flint, too ! By the way, they say 
Gertrude behaved very well. Where is the child ? ” 

Turning round, she now saw Gertrude, who was just entering 
the room, and, going towards her, she kissed her with considerable 
heartiness and sincerity ; for Mrs. Graham, though somewhat 
coarse and blunt, was not without good feelings when the occa* 
eion was such as to awaken them. 

Gertrude’s entrance having served to interrupt the stream of 
exclamatory remarks in which the excitable lady had been indulg- 
ing for ten minutes or more, she now bethought herself of the 
necessity of removing her bonnet and outside garments, a part of 
which, being loosed from their fastenings, she had been dragging 
after her about the floor. 

“ Well ! ” exclaimed she, “ I suppose I had better follow tho 
girls’ example, and go and get some of the dust off from me l 
I ’m half buried, I believe ! But, there, that ’s better than com- 
ing on in the horrid steamboat, last night, as my brother Clinton 
was so crazy as to propose. Where ’s Bridget ? I want her to 
take up some of my things.” 

“ I will assist you,” said Gertrude, taking up a little carpet- 
bag, throwing a scarf which had been stretching across the room 
over her arm, and then following Mrs. Graham closely, in order 
to support the heavy travelling-shawl which was hanging half 
off that lady’s shoulders. At the first landing-place, however, she 
found herself suddenly encircled in Kitty’s warm embrace, and 


?)14 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


laying down her burdens, gave herself up for a few moments to th* 
hugging and kissing that succeeded. 

At the head of the staircase she met Isabel, wrapped in a 
dressing-gown, with a large pitcher in her hand, and a most dis- 
contented and dissatisfied expression of countenance. She set the 
pitcher on the floor, however, and saluted Gertrude with a good 
grace. “ I ’m glad to see you alive,” said she, “ though I can’t 
look at you without shuddering, it reminds me so of that dreadful 
day when we were in such frightful danger. How lucky we were 
to be saved, when there were so many drowned ! I ’ve wondered, 
ever since, Gertrude, how you could be so calm ; I ’in sure 1 
should n’t have known what to do, if you had n’t been there to 
suggest. But, 0, dear ! don’t let us speak of it ; it ’s a thing I 
can’t bear to think of! ” and, with a shudder and shrug of the 
shoulders, Isabel dismissed the subject, and called somewhat pet- 
tishly to Kitty, — “ Kitty, I thought you went to get our pitcher 
filled ! ” 

Kitty, who, in obedience to a loud call and demand from her 
aunt, had hastily run to her room with the little travelling-bag 
which Gertrude had dropped on the staircase, now came back 
quite out of breath, saying, “ I did ring the bell, twice. Has n’t 
anybody coine ? ” 

“ No!” replied Belle ; 44 and I should like to wash my face 
and curl my hair before tea, if I could.” 

“ Let me take the pitcher,” said Gertrude ; “lam going down 
Btairs, and will send J ane up with the water.” 

“ Thank you,” said Belle, rather feebly; while Kitty exclaimed, 
44 No, no, Gertrude ; I ’ll go myself.” 

But it was too late ; Gertrude had gone. 

Gertrude found Mrs. Ellis full of troubles and perplexities. 
44 Only think,” said the astonished housekeeper, 44 of their coming, 
five of them, without the least warning in the world ; and here 
I ’ve nothing in the house fit for tea ; — not a bit of rich cake, not 
a scrap of cold ham ! And, of course, they ’re hungry after theii 
long journey, and will want something nice ! ” 

4 O, if they are very hungry, Mrs. Ellis, they can eat dried 
beef, and fresh biscuit, and plain cake and, if you will give me 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


the keys, I will get out the preserves, and the best silvei, and sea 
that the table is set properly.” 

Nothing was a trouble to Gertrude, that night. Everything 
tnat she touched went right. Jane caught her spirit, and became 
astonishingly active ; and when the really bountiful table was 
spread, and Mrs. Ellis, after glancing around, and seeing that all 
was as it should bo, looked into the beaming eyes and observed 
the glowing cheek and sunny smile of the happy girl, she ex- 
claimed, in her ignorance, “ Good gracious, Gertrude ! anybody 
would think you were overjoyed to see all these folks back 
again ! ” 

It wanted but a few moments to tea-time, and Gertrude was 
selecting fresh napkins from a drawer in the china-closet, when 
Kitty Ray peeped in at the door, and finally entered, leading by 
the hand a little girl, neatly dressed in black. Her face was, at 
first, full of smiles ; but, the moment she attempted to speak, she 
burst into tears, and, throwing her arms round Gertrude’s neck 
whispered in her ear, “0, Gertrude, I ’m so happy ! I came to 
tell you ! ” 

“ Happy ? ” replied Gertrude ; “ then you must n’t cry.” 

Upon this, Kitty laughed, and then cried again, and then 
laughed once more, and, in the intervals, explained to Gertrude 
that she was engaged, — had been engaged a week, to the best 
man in the world, — and that the child she held by the hand was 
his orphan niece, and just like a daughter to him. “ And, only 
think,” continued she, “it ’s all owing to you ! ” 

“ To me ? ” said the astonished Gertrude. 

“Yes; because I was so vain and silly, you know, and liked 
folks that were not worth liking, and didn’t care much for anybody’s 
comfort but my own ; and, if you had n’t taught me to be some- 
thing better than that, and set me a good example, which I ’ve 
tried to follow ever since, he never would have thought of looking 
at me, much less loving me, and believing I should be a fit mother 
for little Gracie, here,” and she looked down affectionately at the 
child, who was clinging fondly to her. “ He is a minister, Ger- 
trude, and very good. Only think of such a childish creature a g 
[ am being a minister’s w T ife ! ” 


51b 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


The sympathy which Kitty came to claim was not denied her 
and Gertrude, with her own eyes brimming with tears, assured 
her of her full participation in her joy. 

in the mean time, little Grace, who still clung to Kitty with 
one hand, had gently inserted the other within that of Gertrude, 
who, looking down upon her for the first time, recognized the 
child whom she had rescued from persecution in the drawing-room 
at Saratoga. 

Kitty was charmed with the coincidence, and Gertrude, as she 
remarked the happy transformation which had already been effect- 
ed in the countenance and dress of the little girl who had been 
so sadly in want of female superintendence, felt an added convic- 
tion of the wisdom of the young clergyman’s choice. 

Kitty was eager to give Gertrude a description of her lover, 
but a summons to the tea-table compelled her to postpone all fur- 
ther communications. 

Mr. Graham’s cheerful parlor had never looked so cheerful as 
on that evening. The weather was mild, but a light fire, which 
had been kindled on Mr. Clinton’s account, did not render the 
room too warm. It had, however, driven the young people into 
a remote corner, leaving the neighborhood of the fireplace to Mrs. 
Graham and Emily, who occupied the sofa, and Mr. Clinton and 
Mr. Graham, whose arm-chairs were placed on the opposite side. 

This arrangement enabled Mr. Graham to converse freely and 
uninterruptedly with his guest upon some grave topic of interest, 
while his talkative wife entertained herself and Emily by a reca- 
pitulation of her travels and adventures. On a table, at the further 
extremity of the room, was placed a huge portfolio of beautiful 
engravings, recently purchased and brought home by Mr. Graham, 
and representing a series of European views. Gertrude and Kitty 
were turning them carefully over ; and little Grace, who was sit- 
ting in Kitty’s lap, and Fanny, who was leaning over Gertrude’s 
shoulder, were listening eagerly to the young ladies’ explanations 
and comments. 

Occasionally Isabel, the only restless or , ^occupied person 
present, would lean over the table to glance at the likeness of 
some familiar spot, and exclaim, “ Kitty, there ’s the shop when « 


THE LAMPLIGHTEK. 


517 


bought my blue silk ! ” or, “ Kitty, there ’s the waterfall that wa 
visited m company with the Russian officers ! ” 

Whi'e the assembled company were thus occupied, the door 
opened, i>dc 5, without any announcement, Mr. Amory and William 
Sullivan entered. 

Had either made his appearance singly, he would have been 
looked upon with astonishment by the majority of the company ; 
bat coming, as they did, together, and with an apparently good 
understanding existing between them, there was no countenance 
present (save the children's) which expressed any emotion but 
that of utter surprise. 

Mr. and Mrs. Graham, however, were too much accustomed to 
society to betray any further evidence of that sentiment than was 
contained in a momentary glance, and, lising, received their visitors 
with due politeness and propriety. The former nodded carelessly 
to Mr. Amory, whom he had seen in the morning, presented him 
to Mr. Clinton (without, however, mentioning the existing connec- 
tion with himself), and was preparing to go through the same cere- 
mony to Mrs. Graham, but was saved the trouble, as she had not 
forgotten the acquaintance formed at Baden-Baden. 

Willie’s knowledge of the company also spared the necessity of 
introduction to all but Emily ; and that being accidentally omitted, 
he gave an arch glance at Gertrude, and, taking an offered seat 
near Isabel, entered into conversation with her ; Mr. Amory being 
in like manner engrossed by Mrs. G raham. 

“ Miss Gertrude,” whispered Fanny, as soon as the interrupted 
composure of the party was once more restored, and glancing at 
Willie, as she spoke, “ that ’s the gentleman you were out driving 
with, this afternoon. I know it is,” continued she, as she observed 
Gertrude change color, and endeavor to hush her, while she looked 
anxiously round, as if fearful the remark had been overheard ; “ is 
it Willie, Gertrude ? — is it Mr. Sullivan ? ” 

Gertrude became more and more embarrassed, while the mis- 
chievous Fanny continued to ply her with questions; and Isabel, 
who had jealously noticed that Willie’s eyes wandered more than 
once to the table, turned on her such a scrutinizing look as ren- 
dered her confusion distressing. 

44 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


&18 

Accident came to her relief, however. The housemaid, with the 
evening paper, endeavored to open the door, against which he? 
chair was placed; thus giving her an opportunity to rise 
receive the paper, and, at the same time, an unimportant message 
While she was thus engaged, Mr. Clinton left his chair, with the 
feeble step of an invalid, crossed the room, addressed a question 
in a low voice to Willie, and, receiving an affirmatory reply, took 
Isabel by the hand, and, approaching Mr. Amory, exclaimed, with 
deep emotion, “ Sir, Mr. Sullivan tells me that you are the persor 
who saved the life of my daughter ; and here she is to thank you. 

Mr. Amory rose and flung his arm over the shoulder and around 
the waist of Gertrude, who was passing on her way to hand the 
newspaper to Mr. Graham, and who, not having heard the remark 
of Mr. Clinton, received the caress with a sweet smile and an up- 
turned face. “ Here,” said he, “ Mr. Clinton is the person who 
saved the life of your daugnter. It is true that I swam wi fch her 
to the shore ; but it was under the mistaken impression tha t I was 
bearing to a place of safety my own darling child, whom I little 
suspected then of having voluntarily relinquished to anothei her 
onty apparent chance of rescue.” 

“Just like you, Gertrude! Just like you!” shouted Kitty 
and Fanny in a breath, each struggling to obtain a foremost place 
in the little circle that had gathered round her. 

“ My own noble Gertrude ! ” whispered Emily, as, leaning on 
Mr. Amory ’s arm, she pressed Gertrude’s hand to her lips. 

“ O, Gertrude! ” exclaimed Isabel, with tears in her eyes, “I 
didn’t know. I never thought — ” 

“ Your child ? ” cried Mrs. Graham’s loud voice, interrupting 
Isabel’s unfinished exclamation. 

“ Yes,« my child, thank God ! ” said Mr. Amory, reverently ; 
i restored, at last, to her unworthy father, and — you have no 
secrets here, my darling ? ” — Gertrude shook her head, and glanced 
at Willie, who now stood at her side, — “ and gladly bestowed by 
him upon her faithful and far more deserving lover.” And he 
placed her hand in Willie’s. 

There was a moment’s pause. All were impressed with the so- 
lemnity of th$ action. Then Mr. Graham came forward, shook 


THE LAMPLIGHTER 


Ol 


--ach of the young couple heartily by the hand, and, passing his 
sleeve hastily across his eyes, sought his customary refuge in the 
dbrary. 

“ Gertrude,” said Fanny, pulling Gertrude’s dress to attract her 
attention, and speaking in a loud whisper, “are you engaged? — 
are you engaged to him ? ” 

“ Yes,” whispered Gertrude, anxious, if possible, to gratify 
Fanny’s curiosity, and silenoe her questioning. 

“ 0 ! I ’m so glad ! I’m so glad ! ” shouted Fanny, dancing 
round the room, and flinging up her arms. 

“ And I ’in glad, too ! ” said Gracie, catching the tone of con 
gratulation, and putting her mouth up to Gertrude for a kiss. 

“ And I am glad,” said Mr. Clinton, placing his hands upon 
those of Willie and Gertrude, which were still clasped together 
“ that the noble and self-sacrificing girl, whom I have no words 
to thank, and no power to repay, has reaped a worthy reward in 
the love of one of the few men with whom a fond father may 
venture wholly to trust the happiness of his child.” 

Exhausted by so much excitement, Mr. Clinton now complained 
of sudden faintness, and was assisted to his room by Willie, who, 
after waiting to see him fully restored, returned to receive the 
blessing of Emily upon his new hopes, and hear with wonder and 
delight the circumstances which attended the discovery of Ger- 
trude’s parentage. 

For, although it was an appointment to meet Mr. Amory 
which had summoned him back to Boston, and he had in the 
course of their interview acquainted him with the happy termina- 
tion of a lover’s doubts, he had not, until the disclosure took 
place in Mr. Graham’s parlor, received in return the slightest 
hint of the great surprise which awaited him. He had felt a little 
astonishment at his friend’s expressed desire to join him at once 
in a visit to Mr. Graham’s ; but, on being informed that he had 
made the acquaintance of Mrs. Graham in Germany, he concluded 
that a desire to renew his intercourse with the family, and possi- 
bly a slight curiosity to see the lady of his own choice, were the 
only motives which had influenced him. 

And n5w, amid retrospections of the past, thanksgiving for the 


620 


THE LAMPLIGHTEK. 


present, and hopes and aspirations for the future, the evening 
passed rapidly away. 

# 

“ Come here, Geity ! ” said Willie; “ come to the window, and 
see what a beautiful night it is.” 

It was indeed a glorious night. Snow lay on the ground. The 
air was intensely cold without, as might be judged from the quick 
movements of pedestrians, and the brilliant icicles with which 
everything that had an edge was fringed. The stars were glitter- 
ing, too, as they never glitter, except on the most intense of winter 
nights. The moon was just peeping above an old brown building, 
— the same old corner building which had been visible from the 
door-step where Willie and Gerty were wont to sit in their child- 
hood, and from behind which they had often watched the coming 
of that same round moon. 

Leaning on Willie’s shoulder, Gertrude stood gazing until the 
full circle was visible in a space of clear and cloudless ether. 
Neither of them spoke, but their hearts throbbed with the same 
emotion, as they thought of the days that were past. 

Just then, the gas-man came quickly up the street, lit, as by an 
electric touch, the bright burners that in close ranks lined either 
side-walk, and in a moment more was out of sight. 

Gertrude sighed. “ It was no such easy task for poor old 
Uncle True,” said she ; * there have been great improvements' 
since his time.” 

“There have, indeed!” said Willie, glancing round the well- 
lit, warm and pleasantly-furnished parlor of his own and Ger- 
trude’s home, and resting his eyes, at last, upon the beloved one 
by his side, whose beaming face but reflected back his own happi- 
ness, — “ such improvements, Gerty, as we only dreamt of once 
I wish the dear old man could be here to see and share them ! ” 

A tear started to Gertrude’s eye ; but, pressing Wi lie’s arm, 
she pointed reverently upward to a beautiful, bright star, just 
breaking forth from a silvery film, which had hitherto half-over- 
shadowed it ; the star through which Gertrude had ever fane^d 
she could discern the smile of the kind old man. 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


521 


Bear Uncle True!” said she, “his lamp still burns brightly 
la heaven, Willie ; and its light is not yet gone out on earth ! ” 

aL JL »V. AL AL AL AL AL AL 

W V?* TV TV TV W TV 

In a beautiful town about thirty miles from Boston, and on the 
shore of one of those hill-embosomed ponds which would be im- 
mortalized by the poet in a country less rich than ours with such 
sheets of blue, transparent water, there stood a mansion-house of 
solid though ancient architecture. It had been the property of 
Philip Amory’s paternal grand-parents, and the early home and 
sole inheritance of his father, who so cherished the spot that it 
was only with great reluctance and when driven to the act by 
the spur of poverty, that he was induced to part with the much- 
valued estate. 

To reclaim the venerable homestead, repair and judiciously 
modernize the house, and fertilize and adorn the grounds, was a 
favorite scheme with Philip. His ample means now rendering 
it practicable, he lost no time in putting it into execution, and, 
the spring after he returned from his wanderings, saw the work 
in a fair way to be speedily completed. 

In the mean time, Gertrude’s marriage had taken place, the 
Grahams had removed to their house in town (which, out of com- 
pliment to Isabel, who was passing the winter with her aunt, was 
more than ever crowded with gay company), and the bustling 
mistress was already projecting changes in her husband’s country - 
seat. 

And Emily, who had parted with her greatest treasuie, and 
found herself in an atmosphere which was little in harmony with 
her spirit, murmured not; but, contented with her lot, neither 
dreamed of nor asked for outward change, until Philip came to 
her one day, and, taking her hand, said, gently, 

“ This is no home for you, Emily. You are as much alone as 
I in my solitary farm-house. We loved each other in childhood, 
our hearts became one in youth, and have continued so until 
now. Why should we be longer parted? Your father will not 
oppose our wishes ; and will you, dearest, refuse to bless and 
gladden the lonely life of your gray -haired lover ? ” 

44 * 


522 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


But Emily shook her head, while she answered, with her smik 

of ineffable sweetness, 

0, no, Philip ! do not speak of it ! Think of my frail health 

and my helplessness ! ” 

“ Your health, dear Emily, is improving. The roses are 
already coming back to your cheeks ; and, for your helplessness, 
what task can be so sweet to me as teaching you, through my 
devotion, to forget it ? 0, do not send me away disappointed, 

Emily ! A cruel fate divided us for years ; do not by your own 
act prolong that separation ! Believe me, a union with my early 
lov^ is my brightest, my only hope of happiness ! ” 

And she did not withdraw the hand which he held, but yielded 
the other also to his fervent clasp. 

“ My only thought had been, dear Philip,” said she, “ that ere 
this I should have been called to my Father’s home; and even 
now I feel many a warning that I cannot be very long for earth ; 
but while I stay, be it longer or shorter, it shall be as you wish. 
No word of mine shall part hearts so truly one, and your home 
shall be mine.” 

And when the grass turned green, and the flowers sent up their 
fragrance, and the birds sang in the branches, and the spring 
gales blew soft and made a gentle ripple on the water, Emily 
came to live on the hill-side with Philip. And Mrs. Ellis came 
too, to superintend all things, and especially the dairy, which 
became henceforth her pride. She had long since tearfully im- 
plored, and easily obtained, the forgiveness of the much-wronged 
Philip ; and proved, by the humility of her voluntary confession, 
that she was not without a woman’s heart. 

Mrs. Prime pleaded hard for the cook’s situation at the faim ; 
but Emily kindly expostulated with her, saying, 

“We cannot all leave my father, Mrs. Prime. Who would 
see to his hot toast, and the fire in the library ? ” and the good 
old woman saw the matter in the right light, and submitted. 

And i i the long-wandering, much-suffering, and deeply-sorrow- 
ing exil$ happy now ? He is ; but his peace springs not from 
bis beautiful home, his wide possessions, an honorable reputs 
among his fellow-men, or ever, the love of the gentle Emily. 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 


523 


All these are blessings that he well knows how to prize ; but 
his world-tried soul has found a deeper anchor yet, — a surer 
refuge from the tempest and the storm ; for, through the power 
of a living faith, he has laid hold on eternal life. The blind girl’s 
prayers are answered ; her last, best work is done ; she has cast 
a ray from her blessed spirit into his darkened soul ; and, should 
her call to depart soon come, she will leave behind one to follow 
in her footsteps, fulfil her charities, and do good on earth, until 
such time as he be summoned to join her again in heaven. 

As they go forth in the summer evening, to breathe the balmy 
air, listen to the winged songster of the grove, and drink in the 
refreshing influences of a summer sunset, all things speak a holy 
peace to the new-born heart of him who has so long been a man 
of sorrow. 

As the sun sinks among gorgeous clouds, as the western light 
grows dim, and the moon and the stars come forth in their 
solemn beauty, they utter a lesson to his awakened soul ; and the 
voice of nature around, and the still, small voice within, whisper, 
in gentlest, holiest accents, 

“ The sun shall be no more thy light by day*, neither for bright- 
ness shall the moon give light unto thee ; but the Lord shall bo 
unto tiiee an everlasting light, and thy God thy glory.” 

“ Thy sun shall no more go down, neither shall thy moon with- 
draw itself ; for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and 
the days of thy mourning shall be ended.” 


THE END 

















LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



oooaanobvs 



